Handful of Hollow
by MissMona
Summary: FEMMESLASH! A character-driven romance, revolving around an extremely uncommon pairing. Millicent Bulstrode and Hermione Granger star in this slow-moving tale of their sixth year at Hogwarts...
1. Die Daily

  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
  
**Author's Notes**: This story will one day evolve into a GIRLSLASH story. That means LESBIAN love. If you're offended by this sort of thing, spare us both the drama and look for your entertainment elsewhere.  
  
A huge thank you to Lasair, my wonderful beta. She's a spelling and grammar goddess (not to mention the fabulous writer of Veela Magic), and found much more wrong with this chapter than I actually fixed… which means all remaining errors belong solely to me.  
  
**  
Handful of Hollow**, by Miss Mona  
  
**Chapter 1: Die Daily**  
  
_ Death implies change and individuality; if thou be  
THAT which hath no person, which is beyond the  
changing, even beyond changelessness, what hast  
thou to do with death ?  
The bird of individuality is ecstasy; so also is its death.  
In love the individuality is slain; who loves not love?  
Love death therefore, and long eagerly for it.  
Die Daily.  
_  
-Aleister Crowley  
  
  
  


**********

  
  
  
Instinct, perception, and intuition had always run strong in the Bulstrode line. Indeed, many Bulstrode witches had attributed some degree of their success, their fame, and even their longevity to these three particular strengths at one time or another.  
  
So it was, that with neither sound nor sight to alert her, responding only to gut feeling, Millicent _knew_ – she was certain. She was being watched.  
  
She had been standing before one of the enormous windows of her bedroom, watching a raven sweep across the sky, and reaching blindly into a small bag of runestones when the sharp sense of hostile tension had first rushed over her. As her fingers had finally curled around one of the stones, her head had involuntarily snapped up and she had dropped the bag, runestones scattering noisily across the floor.  
  
That had been a mistake. Whoever was there undoubtedly knew that their presence had been detected. Still, not wanting to further jeopardize herself in what she had felt might be shaping up to be a rather precarious situation, Millicent had held her ground. Rather than turning to seek the intruder, she had fixed her eyes on the transparently mirrored image of her room in the window before her, searching for some sign of the trespasser.  
  
For several minutes now she'd been standing so: rigidly, completely still with her arms held tensely at her sides. Her senses were sharpened in anticipation, her left hand clenched tightly around the runestone, and her right instinctively seeking the wand in her pocket. She slowed her breathing and squinted slightly, trying to bring the room's reflection into sharper focus. Straining her ears, she could hear nothing but the blood pulsing wildly through her body, her own soft and even intakes of air.  
  
Another moment passed before a movement in the glass caught her eye. She could barely discern a figure shift to lean against the shadowed doorframe of the chamber, the arrogance of her posture betraying her identity at once.  
  
Her mother. What had she expected? Times were tense, that was undeniable, but...  
  
Shaking herself mentally, Millicent allowed herself to relax. Still, she did not turn, instead waiting for Mileva to give herself away. Whatever fleeting sense of relief that had come from recognition had been immediately replaced by a new feeling of unease - Millicent knew that her mother posed a threat uniquely her own. Finally she saw another small movement in the window's reflection. The familiar sound of a striking match shattered the strained silence.  
  
"Mother," Millicent said, more a response of acknowledgement than one of greeting. A tiny spark of orange danced across the window before the flame flickered out, permeating the air with the faint, but sharp scent of sulfur.  
  
"Millicent."  
  
Mileva slurred the name in her heavy Russian accent, extending each syllable carelessly. Exhaling a cloud of heady smoke from her cigarette, she stepped into the center of the room and smiled. Millicent turned to face her mother at last, catching the unmistakable spite behind Mileva's smile, and made a short gesture towards the two high-backed chairs set before her unlit fireplace. She was not surprised when Mileva made no notice of the invitation, and shrugging, Millicent turned back to the window and the view beyond.  
  
Radclyffe Hall, her father's Classical Georgian Estate, was ideally situated between Cambridge and Grantchester, boasting a magnificent view of both the nearby city and the surrounding countryside, a view no less impressive in the melancholy haze of the wet English dawn. Outside, a weak gray light was struggling to pierce the clouds over the River Cam while a furious wind tore through the trees below and rattled the panes of the window. Millicent shuddered. It was going to storm; the air was heavy with moisture and electricity. The summer had, in fact, been unusually full of such days, the sullen mornings giving way to raging evenings, an occasional sunny spell appearing only long enough to give a false sense of serenity before being cruelly overtaken again.  
  
"I do hope you've enjoyed your summer," Mileva said, her dismissive drawl sounding far from hopeful.  
  
"Of course." Millicent nodded once as she shifted her gaze from the grays and greens outside and back to her mother's faint reflection. The question had taken her off guard, though she did nothing to show it. Her mother rarely took pains with such civilities as idle conversation, especially not with her. Of course, there was nothing really civil about Mileva now. Or ever. Standing loftily behind Millicent with that venomous smile playing across her face, her arms folded lightly across her chest as she took long drags from her cigarette, she seemed nothing less than dangerous.  
  
Which, in fact, she was. Years spent captive in an unfulfilling marriage had made Mileva cruel. At least that had been how Carling had once explained it.  
  
The tense silence reclaimed its hold on the room as Millicent turned, moved slowly to one of the chairs before the fireplace, and sat, at last giving Mileva her full attention. There was no reason to draw this out, whatever _this_ was.  
  
From across the room, Mileva was studying her, her critical eyes sweeping Millicent from head to toe, an undisguised expression of loathing clouding her eyes. Millicent calmly crossed her legs and placed her elbows on the broad arms of her chair, holding her mother's scornful gaze unflinchingly and posturing herself in a challenge that matched Mileva's own. Mileva's bitter smile slowly dissolved.  
  
Now obviously annoyed, shadowed in the strange half-light of the room, Mileva looked more stunning and otherworldly than ever. She was famous for her beauty, and deservedly so. Black hair against white skin, heavily hooded eyes, arching brows, high cheekbones - she was all sharp lines and dramatic curves. A look of steadily increasing displeasure had twisted the perpetual pout of her mouth into a grimace, but she looked none the worse for it. She was perfectly seductive, but undeniably ferocious. There was something almost vampiric about her, Millicent thought. A hunter, her feral beauty seemed magnified by her passion for the hunt, the excitement stirred by the inevitable attack.  
  
The attack. Millicent frowned, and sighed, mentally steeling herself, waiting for her mother to speak.  
  
"Your Father will be away for all of December and January," Mileva said at last as she stepped in front of the window. Backlit by the cool gray light of daybreak, Mileva became a featureless black mass of sensual curves, an eerie shadow amidst a swirling cloud of blue smoke. _Menace Personified_ , Millicent thought, grimly amused.  
  
"Yes, I know."  
  
"With the passing of Carling, that would leave you alone with me over the holidays... should you choose to return." Mileva tapped the ash from her cigarette directly onto the floor and cocked her head expectantly.  
  
Millicent was startled by this casual mention of her grandmother's death. This was not quite what Millicent had anticipated, but neither was it news. Millicent had already resigned herself to the idea of spending the Christmas holidays at Hogwarts. It would be her first holiday away from home, and while the idea was slightly alien, she could think of few things worse than being trapped alone with her mother in Radclyffe Hall for two weeks. The house was enormous, true, but there had never quite been enough room in the estate for herself and her mother to coexist peacefully, even when she had been a child. Besides, Millicent knew that the first winter without her grandmother would be difficult enough _ without_ the added stress of her mother's company.  
  
Millicent stiffened slightly against her chair and nodded toward Mileva. "I'll let you know," she responded, a hint of impatience tingeing the barely maintained tone of indifference in her voice.  
  
"Yes, do." A fainter version of her mother's previous smirk returned as Mileva took several slow steps in Millicent's direction.  
  
Stopping only a few feet from her daughter, Mileva dropped her cigarette to the floor, slightly lifting the flimsy material of her gown to reveal one slippered foot. She crushed the cigarette with the toe of her shoe, never dropping her hold on Millicent's eyes, then straightened to her full six feet, her hands trailing sensually down her narrow waist and falling to her hips. "Your father has made a deposit into your Gringotts' account. It is meant to last you until your birthday."  
  
Millicent nodded.  
  
"Well. Shall I send the house-elves to fetch your things?" Extending one slender arm lazily, Mileva gestured toward the trunk and small black bag set near the door.  
  
Again, the simple civility caught Millicent off guard. "No, thank you."  
  
Millicent flinched reflexively as her mother stepped forward and rather formally kissed the air beside her cheek. Making no attempt to return the gesture, Millicent remained seated, watching with a mixture of relief and disbelief as Mileva sauntered towards the door, threw one last callous smile over her shoulder, then left. Millicent shook her head. That had been too easy. All of the usual hostility she'd ever felt in her mother was there, but for once nothing had come of it. Things were different now, Millicent reminded herself. Six months ago, even three months ago, she would never have escaped one of Mileva's visits so easily.  
  
Mileva's chosen form of aggression had never been physical, but until recently, her verbal lashings had been frequent throughout Millicent's life. Her father intervened on the rare occasions that he was made aware of their conflicts, and once Carling had come to live at Radclyffe Hall, the frequency of Mileva's attacks had waned considerably. But not stopped.  
  
As a child it had all been quite painful, but now, as a woman, and as a strong Bulstrode witch, Millicent had learned to take their confrontations in stride, her practiced indifference the only weapon which seemed to truly thwart her mother's attempts to intimidate.  
  
Millicent let out a long breath and leaned back heavily in her chair, then opened her fist and finally looked at the warm black runestone cupped in the curve of her palm.  
  
Ehwaz, the rune of abrupt change. Fitting, really. The surreal, painful summer was finally at its end, and she would shortly be returning to Hogwarts for her sixth year of magical education. There was nothing particularly novel in that itself, but Millicent would be more alone this year than ever before.  
  
In sixteen years Millicent had learned to easily accept solitude - it had been both a constant and a comfort in her life - and she had always responded well to change. And anyway, she had already had two months to reconcile herself to the not unexpected loss of Carling. As her return to Hogwarts had grown closer, however, she had been surprised to find a sense of gnawing anxiety growing inside her.  
  
In her final week of the holiday, she had finally placed the nervous discomfort that had lingered on the edge of her thoughts for so long. It was the once-frequent correspondence she and Carling had shared that would be so sorely missed. More than a grandmother, Carling had been a mentor, a role model, and in her own way, a friend. The idea of losing that aspect of their relationship had reopened the wounds Millicent had initially suffered over Carling's death.  
  
Standing, Millicent summoned the small black leather bag and the runestones she'd dropped at her mother's appearance, then gently replaced them, the small jet stones clattering softly. She carefully dropped the bag into her pocket, taking comfort in the pull of its familiar weight, then pulled out her wand. Ebony, eleven and a half inches with a core of Thestral feather. Carling had kept Thestrals in her younger years, or at least before Millicent's father had been born. In those days, the local Muggles had never been suspicious, thanks to a number of concealing charms, but when the superstitious wizarding population of Cambridge had heard rumors that the unlucky winged horses were kept so near, they had eventually begun to blame Carling for practically everything that ever went wrong in Cambridgeshire. The beasts had been quietly relocated to Carling's old estate in Northern Scotland, but after Millicent's birth, Carling had made a point of taking her granddaughter to see them every year on her birthday.  
  
No animal had ever inspired such awe in Millicent as her grandmother's Thestrals. They were majestic creatures; powerful, graceful, perceptive, and proud; their intelligence, strength, and superiority were apparent in every move they made. What the rest of the wizarding world saw in Unicorns, Millicent felt in Carling's Thestrals. Yet unlike unicorns, the Thestrals were not drawn by purity, but by the worth and ability they sensed in their handlers, a mutual respect and interest. Millicent's affinity with the animals had been established immediately. "_We magic folk forget our place sometimes, Millicent. We think we are all that is powerful in the world. Thestrals remind us of ourselves_ ," Carling had told her. Millicent had never needed reminding.  
  
On Millicent's eleventh birthday, Carling had given her the wand. It was exceptionally beautiful, with intricate carvings winding elegantly up its whole length from the bottom, obviously fashioned with painstaking care. She had cherished the wand immediately, and even then magic had come easily to her. The wand was so close to perfect, a tool that channeled her power so smoothly it seemed almost to be an extension of herself. There was nothing like it to be had at Ollivander's.  
  
During the first few weeks she'd been at Hogwarts, the wand had been an object of some envious admiration among her fellow Slytherins. Still, Millicent had never flaunted it.  
  
The professors had been impressed as well, but more by the ease with which she performed than the wand. However, Millicent constantly shrugged off all praise and acknowledgement, to the point that her talents were accepted, even expected, but infrequently acknowledged. "_The Bulstrode women have never needed our powers to be validated by others, Millicent_ ," Carling had often told her. "_You know your own strength - don't let praise make you lazy_."  
  
Millicent smiled. Carling had never given Millicent enough credit there. The majority of Carling's lectures had been justified and invaluable, but one thing Millicent had never been was lazy. " _Wingardium Leviosa_ ". Her luggage rose smoothly from the floor, and Millicent carefully guided it through her bedroom door and down the wide central staircase of Radclyffe Hall.  
  
Several servants stood at the foot of the stairs, bowing their heads and greeting her politely as her trunk was whisked away by two house-elves. As she fastened a light, waterproof summer cloak over her traveling robes, Millicent's eye was caught by the small, carefully wrapped parcel one servant held, on which her name was clearly written in her father's elegant hand. Millicent was surprised by her own eagerness as she reached for the package.  
  
With the parcel in hand, she felt almost light-headed, and for a moment she simply held it, letting its weight settle comfortably against her splayed fingers. Then, gently, Millicent put it inside her bag. It would have to wait.  
  
With distracted excitement she collected her nearby cat and her small schoolbag, then walked past the servants and through the open doors. Approaching the sleek black automobile parked outside, she turned and, one last time, looked at her father's monumental home, austere and severe against the darkening sky. It would be at least ten months before she would see Radclyffe Hall again, yet Millicent was certain she would not miss it.  
  
  
  


**********

  
  
  
Millicent sat towards the rear of the Slytherin table, her back turned to the tables of the other three houses of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Leaning her chin heavily upon her fist, she watched the Sorting Ceremony with unmasked boredom. As a sixth-year student, the ceremony no longer particularly held her interest. Like Harry Potter's annual brush with death, like the tired competition between the four Hogwarts houses, like Professor Binns' unvarying lectures in History of Magic, the unchanging rituals of the return to Hogwarts had become monotonous.  
  
Her mind wandered as she let her eyes trail the length of the table, pausing half-way up at the sight of her fellow sixth-year Slytherins. Draco Malfoy was sandwiched, as usual, between Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, looking characteristically smug and aloof. Across the table Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were speaking seriously, Blaise gesturing animatedly while Pansy nodded solemnly. Draco looked up from their conversation lazily, meeting Millicent's eye and nodding curtly. She nodded back and held his cool gaze until he looked away, then finished her visual exploration of the table.  
  
The few seventh-years sitting nearby seemed as uninterested in their surroundings as she, and were speaking in low, fervent tones and throwing subtle but suspicious looks around the hall. For an instant, Millicent felt distinctly aware of her solitude. Had she not been so hungry, she might have skipped the ceremony and indulged her desire to get to that package... but no, the Welcoming Feast would be worth the wait.  
  
She drummed her fingers against the table mechanically, receiving a meaningful look from one of the nearby seventh-years. Rolling her eyes and frowning, Millicent produced an apple from her bag and began to absent-mindedly rub it against the sleeve of her robes.  
  
She was faintly surprised when two freshly Sorted Slytherins approached her and rather nervously sat down across the table. She'd never been very good with children, even when she'd been one herself.  
  
One of the first-years, a rather pretty blonde girl, smiled brightly at Millicent. The other, a paler, pointier version of the first looked unsure of herself as she attempted to duplicate her twin's smile. The bully in Millicent seized the opportunity; Millicent placed the apple on the bench beside her and hunched forward, resting her elbows on the table and folding her large hands in the crooks of her elbows in a decidedly unfriendly pose. She fixed an unblinking and emotionless stare upon the two eleven year-olds, and watched with perfectly concealed pleasure as they began to squirm under the weight of her eyes. Eventually, the first nudged the other, who nodded quickly, and they hastily, clumsily, stood up together to move further up the table. Millicent smiled, and reached again for her apple.  
  
"What an impressive display of Slytherin hospitality."  
  
The corners of Millicent's mouth twitched slightly as she slowly shifted her eyes toward the source of the voice. "Ah, now _that's_ a face I've missed." She shook her head seriously. "Draco, have I ever told you that you'd have made a lovely woman?"  
  
Draco Malfoy draped his lean figure backwards across the bench next to Millicent and crossed his right leg over his left knee, surveying the tables of the other three houses coolly. "Do you think so?" He looked pleased. "I've often thought you'd have made a lovely woman yourself," he countered, flashing a playful grin at Millicent as he gracefully swept a strand of fine whitish hair back from his forehead.  
  
Millicent grinned and pushed him gently, though hard enough to make him falter momentarily. He glared at her as he shifted and smoothed his robes. Millicent laughed quietly.  
  
Only three people had ever been particularly important to Millicent. Draco, strangely enough, was one of them. This had not always been the case, as Draco had relentlessly tormented Millicent over her appearance during their first year at Hogwarts. However, Millicent had been a notoriously aggressive child, and had - quite physically - convinced Draco that she would make a better ally than enemy on one unfortunate occasion during their second year when Draco had been without the company of his sidekicks. She had been harshly scolded over the matter by Carling, but had not missed the laughter in her grandmother's eyes. The same night, Millicent had heard her father discussing the matter with Carling, mother and son laughing rather proudly. "_It's not every witch who can put a Malfoy in his place_ ."  
  
Despite Lucius Malfoy's express wish that Draco avoid the young witch, it had not been long before Draco had approached Millicent again. Millicent had shrugged him off at first, but he had persisted. With time Draco's grudging respect for Millicent had become genuine admiration, and in spite of herself, Millicent, too, had developed something like a sisterly affection for Draco. Their verbal exchanges were reliably brutal, but easily forgiven, and in true Slytherin fashion, a source of endless entertainment for both of them. More important to Millicent, however, were their less common serious conversations. While they rarely agreed on any point, Draco was both intelligent and interesting, a friend worthy of her own intellect.  
  
Draco's smile gave way to an unnaturally serious look of... well, on anyone but a Malfoy it would have been called concern, Millicent thought. She braced herself, recognizing at once the now all-too-familiar look that accompanied offered condolences. She'd seen the expression more times in the last two months than she could count.  
  
"Millicent, I was so sorry to hear about Carling."  
  
Millicent's half-smile faded, as she exhaled slowly and looked past Draco, nodding. "Thank you, Draco."  
  
As the Sorting Ceremony came to its end, a significant silence consumed the hall, and both Slytherins looked toward the front table, an ever-ready look of boredom gracing Draco's fine features. Dumbledore cleared his throat, smiled and lifted his hands in a warm manner. "Before the commencement of the Welcoming Feast, it is my pleasure to introduce Professor Keeping, our new Muggle Studies instructor. As many of you undoubtedly know, Professor Ridley is no longer with us." A faint murmur of surprise swept the hall. Dumbledore continued. "She has," he paused and coughed, "relocated to Thailand to study Eastern Muggle religions. However, I am confident that you shall all find Professor Keeping to meet Hogwarts' standard of excellence," he finished, as Professor Keeping stood, bowing her head at the mass of young witches and wizards before her.  
  
Draco leaned toward Millicent. "There's a rumor going around that Keeping is a Squib, you know," Draco muttered with obvious disapproval as he reached for the plate that had materialized in front of him only a moment before.  
  
Millicent began filling her own plate. "I didn't know. And I should think it hardly matters for a Muggle Studies Professor." Millicent had, in fact, heard the rumors that morning on the Hogwarts Express, but had high hopes for Ridley's replacement, regardless of her rumored magical shortcomings. Professor Ridley had been 128 years old and a bit of an eccentric - in wizarding terms that was no small matter. While he was an undeniably kind and sociable wizard, Millicent had often felt that the subject matter of Ridley's lectures was questionable to say the least. Being raised so near Cambridge, Millicent had spent a great deal of her youth in the city. She felt she had a fair idea of what Muggles were and were not. Her father, Alden Bulstrode, who had been a Ravenclaw in his youth, had more or less confirmed her doubts when she'd mentioned that Ridley was her Muggle Studies Professor during holidays her third year. Alden had seemed disgusted, called him an old fool, and in an uncharacteristic moment of verbosity had described, in great detail, the miseducation he himself had suffered in Ridley's class.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous. It always matters. That's barely a step down from being a Mudblood," Draco said simply as he turned his attention back to the non-Slytherin student body.  
  
Millicent rolled her eyes, but didn't press the issue. Fixing him with a disapproving look that he ignored completely, she caught sight of a row of conspicuous violet marks along his neck. Her frown melting into a grin, Millicent flicked the line of bruising hard with her middle finger.  
  
"See a little action this summer, did you?"  
  
Draco jumped slightly then frowned thoughtfully, rubbing his neck. "More than a little, I'd say."  
  
Millicent laughed. "Who was the lucky boy?" Draco's promiscuity was already legendary, although his sexual orientation was, oddly enough, a very well-kept secret.  
  
"Lucky boys Millicent. I spent the summer in France after all." Draco grinned wickedly, still rubbing his neck as his eyes unfocused and a slight flush crept along his cheekbones. He appeared to be lost in what was an obviously pleasant memory.  
  
" Lucius must be so proud." Draco winced.  
  
"Well, as long as I produce a wealthy pure-blood bride..."  
  
"Or groom, I should think."  
  
"No. Heirs. They're a must."  
  
"Right, well, in that case you might consider giving Parkinson a wave," She chuckled as Draco finally looked up at Pansy, who'd been pretending not to watch them for the past fifteen minutes.  
  
Draco smiled at Pansy impatiently. "Honestly Millicent, you ought to consider my offer."  
  
Millicent snorted. "Oh get off it Draco."  
  
"We'd be a perfect match. There couldn't _be_ a more convenient marriage."  
  
"Until your father decides you need an heir..." Millicent pulled a face and shuddered.  
  
"You say that as if you don't need an heir yourself."  
  
"There are other ways for me, you know."  
  
Draco nudged her suggestively "Come on Millicent, wouldn't you make an exception, just for me?"  
  
"Draco, you're lovely, truly. But you know how I feel about hetero-sex. And besides, I know you only want me for my money."  
  
Draco's playful air evaporated immediately. He leaned close, his eyes wide. "You know I consider it below me to take notice of most of the Hogwarts gossip, Millicent," Draco began, and didn't skip a beat when she rolled her eyes and retorted.  
  
"Only because it typically starts with you."  
  
He continued. "But I have to know. Is it true?"  
  
Millicent pushed a forkful of potatoes around her plate. "Is what true?"  
  
Draco refused to be put off. "Rumor has it that Carling left you everything."  
  
Millicent paused theatrically, chewing slowly and pretending to think very hard. "Ah, yes. That. Well, no, that isn't true." Draco looked supremely disappointed. "She left Radclyffe Hall to my father."  
  
Draco's eyes widened further. "And the rest?"  
  
Millicent only smiled in response, though mirthlessly.  
  
"Hell Millicent, you're probably as wealthy as my father." Draco was genuinely impressed. A calculating expression crossed his face as he sat back and shook his head, then returned his attention to the other tables.  
  
"How's your mother taking it?" he asked a few moments later.  
  
"Not well."  
  
They said little else through the rest of the meal, until, with faint amusement, Millicent saw Draco's eyes begin to narrow.  
  
"See something of interest?" she asked, already knowing the one thing that could inspire such an abrupt mood swing in her usually unmovable companion.  
  
He nodded at Millicent, muttering something about "disgusting" and "Mudblood-lovers" to himself, then gestured to Crabbe and Goyle as he walked away.  
  
  
  


**********

  
  
  
Hermione Granger sat at the Gryffindor table with her chin cupped in her hands and her face tilted toward the high, vaulted ceiling. The impressive display overhead showed that the weather had not improved since the students' arrival to the school. The torrential rain that had slowed the Hogwarts Express was still falling steadily, obscuring Hermione's view of the very black sky behind it. Occasional bursts of lightning flashed across the charmed ceiling, consuming the warm yellow firelight of the hall in brief casts of blue. To Hermione's left, Ron Weasley sat with his arm draped awkwardly around her waist. Across the table, Harry Potter was smiling at them both, something like gleeful pride dancing in his eyes.  
  
Hermione looked at Ron and smiled uncertainly, amusedly noting the flush her smile elicited from him. At the end of their fifth year, Hermione and Ron had finally moved beyond their five-year platonic friendship to one of romance, as seemingly the whole school had long expected. Even she had expected it, really. It was supposed to be this way. At the moment, however, she had her doubts. Or maybe she'd had her doubts for longer than she was admitting.  
  
A long summer spent with her parents in the South of Italy had provided a rather convenient escape from her discomfort and confusion, not to mention a great excuse to decline the Weasleys' invitation to spend the summer at the Burrow. Yet, it had struck her as strange that she'd never actually begun to miss Ron, at least no more than she had in previous years, and stranger still that when she'd returned to England last week she'd been overwhelmed with dread at the prospect of their reunion. Just nerves, she'd assured herself, but in her current state of discomfort she was no longer convinced. Well, at least she wouldn't have Fred and George to deal with this year. Their last weeks at Hogwarts had been dedicated almost entirely to the endless torment of Ron and Hermione. Hermione shivered at the memory.  
  
"All right, Hermione?"  
  
Hermione nodded at Ron, then shifted slightly, and was pleased when Ron dropped his arm from her waist. Her relief dissolved as he, instead, reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. She attempted another smile, which he returned whole-heartedly. Desperately, Hermione tried to think of something to say. She'd never been so uncomfortable that she couldn't talk before, but between Ron, who was smiling at her admiringly, and Harry, who was beaming at them both between mouthfuls of pudding, Hermione felt unnaturally self-conscious.  
  
When Ginny appeared at Hermione's right, a new sense of relief swept over her. She took the opportunity to reclaim her hand and embraced Ginny in a very warm hug. Ginny looked surprised, but not displeased.  
  
"What's this, then?"  
  
Ron spoke for Hermione, gently tugging a strand of her hair as he spoke. "She just can't get enough of us Weasleys, Gin. She's been in withdrawal."  
  
Hermione laughed and looked at Ron, forcing herself to relax a bit. Ron's touch was tender, his happiness to be with her again simple, but genuine. Hermione allowed Ron to take her hand once more, hoping that all she really needed was time to get used to things again.  
  
With Ginny came the subject of Quidditch. After the conversations she'd overheard on the train ride to the school, Hermione was almost sure that she was the only Gryffindor not trying out for the team this year. It wasn't that she had no athletic ability - she'd played Muggle football well before she'd come to Hogwarts. It was the flying. Flying had never come easily to Hermione, and Madame Hooch was probably the only Hogwarts teacher, aside from Snape of course, who didn't think Hermione was a genius. All but two members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team had finished their schooling at the end of the last year, which meant Harry, the new team captain, was left with the daunting task of replacing two Beaters and three Chasers over the course of the next several weeks with only the Keeper to aid him in his decisions.  
  
Ron had nearly gotten the Keeper position the year before, but had barely lost it to Ellis Bliss, a tiny Gryffindor from Ginny's year who moved like a hummingbird. If it weren't for Harry, she probably would have made a phenomenal Seeker, but was certainly a talented Keeper. Not to be discouraged, this year Ron would be trying for Beater, a position that seemed to better suit him. Hermione knew from his letters over the summer that he was fairly confident about making the team. She also knew, from her less frequent correspondence with Harry, that Ginny was already practically guaranteed a place on the team as well, and not because of her familial connections, but because she was an athlete of the variety who could easily play any position not just proficiently, but extremely well. There had even been some talk of re-establishing the "Weasley Beaters" on this year's team.  
  
As Ginny immediately pulled both Harry and Ron into a very heated debate over the dubious talents of one Neville Longbottom, Hermione was free to let her mind wander.  
  
Up and down the table, students laughed and chatted happily, most seeming thrilled to be back at school. Most of the first-years at the other end of the table had their necks craned toward Harry and his friends, looks of awe and curiosity on their young faces. Older students around the table were pressing closer to Harry, Ron, and Ginny, the topic of Quidditch quickly once again sweeping the conversations throughout most of the table. Ron's infectious laughter rang out in the hall as the chatter gave way to a bit of enthusiastic yelling, and Hermione noticed that many of the non-Gryffindor students had abandoned their own conversations and were now watching the animated spectacle at the Gryffindor table. Overlooking the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, most of whom looked amused, Hermione's gaze fell on the Slytherins. Across the hall Draco Malfoy was speaking with Crabbe and Goyle and throwing malicious looks in her direction. The two larger boys stood up, Crabbe shoving the remnants of some sort of pastry in his mouth as he did so. They were headed for the Gryffindor table.  
  
Ron and Harry were still arguing energetically, oblivious to the approach of their long-time enemies. Hermione frowned, dreading the expected start of year Malfoy and Potter scuffle. Or perhaps it would be more appropriately called the Weasley and Malfoy scuffle. Since the beginning of her relationship with Ron, she'd found herself and Ron more and more the target of Malfoy's withering abuse - he had always hated Ron, but the idea of any pure-blood "lowering" himself by dating a Muggle-born witch had led to even more brutal confrontations between the students, most of which were focused solely on Ron and herself. As a prefect, Hermione had some authority over the Slytherin boy, but his bitterness about a Muggle-born having power of any sort over a pure-blood seemed only to push his menace further.  
  
She nudged Ron and nodded toward the Slytherin table. Harry followed Ron's gaze and stiffened visibly before turning back in his seat and rolling his eyes at Hermione. Ron's face was set in a look of determination, and he pushed unconsciously at the sleeves of his robes. The Gryffindors surrounding them were too wrapped up in what had by that time become a passionate debate to notice Malfoy's approach, but almost every face at the Slytherin table seemed to be fixed on the Gryffindors, looks of malicious anticipation on most of them. Hermione knew that it was most certainly more than mere luck that Professor McGonagall, at that precise moment, declared the feast to be over and asked the prefects to please lead the anxious-looking first-years to their respective dormitories.  
  
Instantly, the hall become a swarm of activity, and Hermione smiled brightly at Draco over the sea of bustling students as she stood up to join the other Gryffindor prefects at the head of the table. Ron smiled at her and lifted his eyebrows as if to say "oh well" as she took her leave, then after shooting a long, smug grin towards Malfoy, fell back into what had by then evolved into a full-blown argument with seemingly every other Gryffindor from the second year and up. Harry looked slightly more vexed by the near-confrontation, but he too smiled at Hermione as she left.  
  
Hermione happily answered the first-years' questions as she led the way to the Gryffindor common room, carefully sidestepping the "Do you really know Harry Potter?"s. Between questions of which teachers to watch out for, typical detentions, and how to find the kitchens, Hermione could tell this year would be a challenge. She'd taken her prefect duties very seriously last year, but the Gryffindor mentality made being a prefect very hard work. With Hermione's own not infrequent rule-breaking, she often felt it unfair to be too hard on the younger students when they got in trouble. Which was often. Even with her own tendencies to turn a blind eye to many of the happenings both within and outside of the Gryffindor dorms, she loved what she'd come to call "Prefectionism". Despite the endless number of jokes that implied otherwise, Hermione was both a fair and well-liked prefect.  
  
Politely greeting the portrait of the Fat Lady and teaching the first-years the password ("Animus Animi"), she led the excited students through the portrait hole, warmly recalling the awe and excitement she herself had felt at this same moment years before. "Okay, boys dorms up the stairs that way, girls come this way. You'll find that your things have already been brought to your rooms. Don't be late for breakfast, as you'll be getting your timetables then. Breakfast is at eight, and classes start promptly at nine o'clock." Hermione stood smiling at the foot of the stairs leading to the girls' tower as the young students shuffled up to their rooms.  
  
Harry and Ron came through the portrait hole as the last of the first-years disappeared up the stairs.  
  
"Care for a quick chess match, Hermione?" Ron grinned devilishly. Chess was perhaps the only skill aside from flying in which Ron's ability was unquestionably superior to her own.  
  
Hermione shook her head, laughing. "Some other night Ron. I've got work to do."  
  
"What do you mean you've got work to do? Term hasn't even started yet!"  
  
"I just want to look over my summer work one last time. Remember that quiz Snape gave us on the first day last year?"  
  
"Yeah, and I remember you being the only student in the class who got every question right."  
  
"See? That only proves my point." Hermione smiled.  
  
Ron chuckled, then suddenly bent down, giving Hermione a quick, timid peck on her lips, which were open in surprise. A couple of students sitting around the common room whooped. She flushed as he quickly backed away, grinning and flushing himself, then turned towards the stairs to the boys' dorms. Laughing, Harry followed close behind.  
  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
  
My thanks, again, go to Lasair, who is the perfect beta.  
  
The title for this fic is adapted from the album title "Hatful of Hollow", by The Smiths. Everyone should own this album. Radclyffe Hall, of course, is named after the famous 1920'sish Lesbian author Radclyffe Hall. A dog-eared copy of her once-controversial Well of Loneliness sits on the bookshelf of every lesbian in the world, but that doesn't mean you Hets won't love it too. Get shoppin!  
  
In the Chapter to come, there will be more character background, a big ol' cliche, and finally some plot. Any questions? Comments? Please review or e-mail me!  
**  
**  
  



	2. A New Song

A/N: If you've made it this far without realizing this is SLASH, here's your chance to turn back.   
  
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
  
  
** Chapter 2: A New Song**  
_"And she is herself a cave full of echoes..._" - Angela Carter  
  
  
  


**********  
  
  
  


By Monday morning, life in the Slytherin dorms seemed to have already fallen back into its usual patterns. Before an enormous antique mirror, Pansy Parkinson was twirling her wand lazily, a much-practiced _ Crispo_ charm pulling her dark blonde hair into a mass of perfect ringlets. Blaise Zabini stood nearby at her own full-length mirror, which "hmmmed" appreciatively as she adjusted her school robes and tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. Millicent sat on her bed at the opposite end of the room, her left leg pulled up to her chest as she laced her boot and watched the familiar routines of her roommates with vague interest. She laughed softly when Blaise winked at her own reflection. Ambition may have been the primary defining Slytherin characteristic, but vanity was undeniably a close second.  
  
At the sound of Millicent's laughter, Pansy looked up as though she'd been previously unaware of her presence. She gave Millicent a long appraising look, then turned back to the mirror. "Nice boots."  
  
"Thanks," Millicent said. They were indeed nice - soft black dragonhide that laced to her knees. They had been a gift from her father, whose taste for simple elegance perfectly paralleled her own.   
  
"Specially made?" Pansy met Millicent's eyes in the mirror and smiled.  
  
"What are you getting at, Parkinson?" Millicent asked, lifting an eyebrow in challenge. She stood slowly, brushed her hands over the front of her robes, then walked towards the third mirror on the wall. Pansy flushed slightly and turned back to her reflection, deftly fastening two emerald studded silver clips in her hair.  
  
Pansy knew better than to criticize Millicent openly, but her less than subtle jabs at Millicent's size were not infrequent. And that was hardly the only matter of contention between the two girls. Pansy was only one of many Slytherins who had grown wary of Millicent's unapologetic indifference toward the increasingly tense matters of Pureblood wizards over the last few years - not that they'd ever been friends to begin with - and of course there was the delicate issue of Millicent's rumored sexuality...  
  
Blaise's interest in the boots seemed more genuine. "Are they Italian?"  
  
Millicent nodded. "Only the best." Blaise grinned in agreement, revealing two perfect rows of gleaming white teeth. Her mirror sighed.  
  
Millicent carefully pulled a comb through her thick short hair, then used her wand to curl the ends against her face. A familiar process, as she'd worn her hair bobbed for years, but she did this extremely slowly, intentionally dawdling. She was eager for her roommates to leave. Yet when they finally did, chatting cattily and without giving Millicent a second glance, Millicent remained rooted before the mirror.   
  
For a full day, Millicent had been anxious to be alone, to have an opportunity to open the parcel carefully tucked in the bottom of her trunk. However, now that that opportunity had presented itself, she felt as though she were weighted by some strange gravity. She put her wand back into her pocket, then stepped closer to the mirror and gently pressed her fingers to her reflection.   
  
Millicent had been called many things in her life, but "pretty" was not one of them. In fact, the closest description to a compliment she'd ever knowingly received was in her fourth year, when a Durmstrang student had referred to her as "striking". Still, she'd never been certain that this was not meant meanly, for she couldn't deny that her appearance did suggest a sort of aggression that might easily be associated with such a physical word.  
  
Millicent had inherited her mother's smooth pale skin and her sleek black hair, as well as her full cheekbones, the set of her lips, the heavily lidded hooded eyes so dark they appeared almost black. But these features which defined Mileva's beauty were all but lost on Millicent. Millicent's father was pleasant looking enough, but his unremarkable features scattered amongst Mileva's resulted in an awkward visual dissonance.   
  
Lacking the arch of her mother's brows, Millicent's own thick and barely curving ones gave her a permanent expression of brooding. Her nose was neither straight nor small, but long, broad, and shaped by some unremembered break. Her jaw was wide and angular, even masculinely so, a fact not fully hidden by her the soft bob of her hair. On either side of her mouth were the beginnings of what would one day be jowls, turning the mouth that on her mother seemed a seductive pout into a permanent smirk. She had certainly inherited her mother's height - Millicent stood at 5'11" - but her mother's slender, graceful figure had been replaced with the hulking breadth so common in the Bulstrode line. Wide hips and full breasts gave the appearance of a waist, but there was little in Millicent that could be called soft or feminine.   
  
Millicent had always been Mileva's greatest disappointment. Carling, on the other hand -  
  
Carling.   
  
Remembering the reason for her delay, Millicent took her fingers from the mirror, absently noting the smudge that now ran down the center of her reflection. She turned and dropped to her knees, then not unkindly pushed Dahlia off of her trunk, ignoring the cat's protesting mews as Millicent dug through her belongings.   
  
With the parcel in hand, Millicent sat gracelessly on her bed and carefully pulled off the plain brown wrapping paper. A small folded parchment fluttered to the floor, but Millicent's gaze was focused on the Grimoire.   
  
The Grimoire that had, for centuries, been matrilineally passed from one generation to the next within the Bulstrode line was hers at last.   
  
In truth, Millicent would not officially inherit the Grimoire until her seventeenth birthday, in January. Until then, Carling's full estate was in the hands of Millicent's father. Yet Alden Bulstrode was nothing short of reverent in regard to the importance of this legacy of the Bulstrode women. He'd asked merely to borrow the book for his own personal research before passing it on, well before it would technically be hers. Millicent had passed the last two months impatiently but without complaint. She knew it was unlikely that her father would have any success with the book at all, but also knew she would have a lifetime to uncover what he could not.  
  
Now, holding it at last, Millicent deeply inhaled the scent of the ages. Both seductive and frightening, the book seized hold of her senses. It seemed to radiate the intense power and infinite wells of knowledge she knew were held within. The effect was quite dizzying.   
  
Millicent traced her fingers over the inscription faintly pressed into the cover, written in an ancient runic alphabet she could not read, but knew to say "Shadow and Light". Turning the book gently on its spine, she saw that the pages were yellowed, more so than she had remembered, and the dark violet leather binding of the book was worn to a paler shade at its edges. But these signs of its age and wear were nothing a restoration charm wouldn't fix. The book was fairly small, and light enough to be concealed in a pocket should the need arise. Still, at a mere 400 pages in length, it held more information than all of the books in the Hogwarts library combined. Much was hidden beyond the numerous tables Millicent knew how to access, and even Carling had admitted to not knowing all of the Grimoire's secrets. Serving as a journal of sorts for dozens of Bulstrode witches, it was a comprehensive history of magic containing the knowledge and discoveries of each, both the dark and the pure, the profound and the mundane.   
  
Millicent gently placed the book beside her on her bed, then bent over and picked up the parchment that had fallen from between its pages.  
_  
Dear Millicent,  
  
I'm sorry I was unable to see you off, but my studies will keep me in Oxford for at least another week. I thought it only fair to deliver the Grimoire to you before your return to Hogwarts, in spite of my absence. I hope it reached you before your departure from the Hall.   
  
My research garnered little success, as you had implied was likely. I thank you for that sacrifice regardless.   
  
I'll be passing through Hogsmeade next month. Perhaps lunch?   
  
With love,   
Alden  
_  
Millicent put down the terse note, then pulled her wand from her pocket. She murmured the incantation that she knew would unlock the book (_"Sapientiam Aperio"_), then ran the wand lightly across the first page. At first glance, the page appeared to be completely black. It was only after a long moment, breath held, that the ink on the page began to assemble itself into letters, and after another that the letters arranged themselves coherently.   
  
The whirling jumble of letters undulated slightly, then at once took the form of her grandmother's familiar jagged script.   
  
_Millicent -   
  
You have more power and potential than you know. I can no longer guide your progress, but you will find this book an abler teacher than myself.   
  
Herein lies the path to your success. Use it well. _  
  
The words vanished as quickly as they'd appeared, the ink on the page this time condensing into the image of a black widow. The spider crawled over the page frantically, eventually settling partially concealed in the space between the page and the cover. Millicent sat back and pulled the book into her lap, watching as the spider launched herself to the opposite edge of the page then back again, weaving an intricate web. Within seconds the web was complete and a sort of table of contents had appeared between its spindly black lines.   
  
Millicent tapped the first line, which read "Charms, Hexes, and Curses" as she'd seen Carling do countless times in the past. Immediately the book's pages began to turn of their own accord. Another table materialized, this one extending over a number of pages. Everything from "abasement" to "zoology" was listed. Tapping the word "adoration", Millicent shook her head as the pages again began to turn and a lengthy list of love charms appeared. She could only guess at how many would only be found in the restricted section of the school library, not to mention how many were probably forbidden outright by the Ministry of Magic.   
  
Turning back to the category of charms, she tapped the word "adversary" and gave a low whistle at the list of curses that appeared. She flipped through the pages slowly. "Harm, bodily, Homicide, Humiliation..."  
  
_"Don't look for trouble, Millicent,"_ Carling had often said. _ "It will find you on its own." _Millicent's penchant for bullying had earned her the lecture more times than she could count, yet her aggression had never extended to anything quite so serious. "Redi," Millicent murmured, and the pages fluttered back to the previous table.   
  
At the sound of a sharp tapping, Millicent closed the book. A horned owl was beating her wings impatiently beyond a nearby window, a low, plaintive hoot barely audible through the thick glass. Tucking the Grimoire under her arm, Millicent rose and opened the window, offering her shoulder as a temporary perch for the massive bird. She carefully unrolled the scroll attached to the bird's out-stretched claw. Her timetable. Potions first, and she was already late.  
  


**********  
  
  


  
It was not until Tuesday afternoon that Millicent had her first Advanced Muggle Studies class.   
  
Professor Keeping was perched gingerly on the edge of her desk, casting warm, but business-like smiles at the students filing into the room. Millicent had been one of the first to arrive, and had quickly claimed a seat at the back table from which she was currently taking a mental inventory of her classmates.   
  
Expectedly, the class was composed almost entirely of seventh-year students. Aside from herself, there were only three Ravenclaws, one Gryffindor, and a Hufflepuff to represent the sixth year. Still, that added up to quite a few more sixth-years than usually placed into the advanced level of the class. More than half of the remaining students were Ravenclaw seventh-years. Millicent was not at all surprised to find herself the only Slytherin in the room - Muggle Studies had never been a popular Slytherin elective.   
  
As Professor Keeping cleared her throat and stood, the classroom door was flung open and one last student flew into the room - a Gryffindor from her own year - Hermione Granger. The Muggle-born witch had dropped the class at the end of her third year, but as a fifth-year had arranged to be placed in the Intermediate section of the class for the sake of her O.W.L.s. Being Muggle-born, she had a background that allowed this irregularity to go more or less unquestioned.   
  
Keeping smiled as Granger took her seat next to the only other sixth-year Gryffindor in the class. "We may as well get started now. I'm Professor Keeping, and this, as you know, is Advanced Muggle Studies. Years ago I was a Hogwarts student myself," Keeping smiled meaningfully at the Ravenclaws sitting in the front row. So the rumors weren't true, Millicent thought. No Squib had ever been accepted to Hogwarts. "But have only very recently returned to Scotland from several years spent abroad studying and co-existing with Muggles in various countries. I'll admit now that this is my first year teaching, but I am positive that you'll find my class to be adequately challenging."  
  
After Ridley's class, which had been nothing less than laughable at times, anything would be, Millicent thought.   
  
"The class will be largely in part set up as an independent study," Keeping said as she began pacing across the front of the room. "Between now and the end of the year you will have only one assignment." Keeping paused, allowing this idea to register. The Hufflepuff sixth-year tensed visibly. The majority of Ravenclaws looked intrigued, and a soft wave of incoherent chatter rose and died quickly.  
  
"You will be asked to write one forty foot dissertation on the topic of your choice," Keeping said. "Anything regarding Muggle theology, the arts, science, philosophy, technology, sociology, political systems, and pop culture is acceptable. Other ideas should be discussed with me. At the year's end I hope to have your works compiled, printed, and bound as a contribution to the school library's Muggle studies section."  
  
Millicent raised her eyebrows in surprise. This would be quite a change from Ridley's class indeed.   
  
Keeping stopped pacing and sat down at her desk, hunching forward and steepling her fingers in a manner that very much reminded Millicent of Snape. "You do have the option of working in pairs, but those who choose to do so will be required to write an additional twenty feet on their chosen topic.  
  
"Because this assignment is based almost entirely around your individual research, I will be more of an..." she waved one hand and looked upwards. "Overseer of your progress than a teacher. My main function here is to guide you in the right direction, give aid when I'm able, and, of course, to give you your marks."  
  
Keeping leaned back in her seat and smiled. "Which brings me to the subject of grading. There will be only one short essay exam - counting for ten percent of your final grade - at the end of the year, so the majority of that grade will instead be based upon the following. The paper itself will account for thirty percent of your entire grade. Six rough drafts of your thesis, which will be due according to this calendar, "She flicked her wand toward a stack of parchment that began efficiently distributing itself around the class. "Count for another twenty five. Twenty percent will be based upon periodic in-class presentations recording your progress, and the remainder of your grade will be based on journals and observation projects."  
  
Tough, certainly, but not impossible.   
  
"Tuesday, one week from today, you will each be required to give a three minute presentation, a topic proposal. We will meet in the library for class on Thursday. Between now and then, I suggest that you work out partnerships and decide on your topics. The rest of today's class will be spent freewriting."  
  
Before the class gave way to total chaos, Keeping raised her hands. "One last note - my office is located in the South Tower, and I am often there between classes. However, should you ever need to contact me after hours, I suggest that you owl me, and I will respond at my earliest convenience. In the rather unlikely event of an emergency, you may come to my private chambers, also in the South Tower, adjacent to my office. Are there any questions?"  
  
The classroom erupted in excited conversation. A number of hands shot into the air, and several students began pulling out quills and parchments. A few students exchanged seats, seemingly establishing partnerships. The sixth-year Hufflepuff, who by this time had paled considerably, picked up his belongings and stumbled out of the classroom. A seventh-year Gryffindor followed close behind. A number of students were writing vigorously by the time some semblance of order had returned in the classroom. Millicent looked around the room at the bent heads of her classmates as she sucked thoughtfully on the quill she'd pulled from her bag, then she, too, began to write.   
  
  


**********

  
  
  
On Friday evening, Millicent had the Hogwarts library almost entirely to herself. A few other students sat at scattered tables around the room, some reading, some speaking in lowered voices, one or two sleeping, their faces pressed between the pages of dusty books. From her own table in the further-most corner of the room, Millicent could not see who entered or left the library, and had been rather enjoying her solitude. Like her father, she found great pleasure when she was absorbed in research.   
  
However, after she had been there for several quiet, uneventful hours, Millicent heard the distracting clatter of what could only be a Gryffindor entrance, followed closely by a reprimanding "tshhh" from Madame Pince. The apologetic students lowered their voices substantially, but as they neared Millicent's table, she could still overhear their chatter. A boy's hushed tones were decidedly excited, and words like "bloody" and "brilliant" and "Bludger" came up repeatedly. His companion made a few vaguely interested "Hmm" noises, but otherwise seemed to have very little to contribute to the conversation.  
  
Millicent frowned in annoyance and put down her quill. They were being too quiet to be heard clearly, yet still too loud to be ignored. Shoving a stack of parchment into her bag, Millicent stood and gathered her books, then retreated between two rows of shelves in the nearby Muggle Studies section. Unceremoniously dropping her things to the floor, she stretched and yawned before beginning to scan the titles on the shelves before her, again becoming completely engaged in the task at hand.   
  
In no time, Millicent had added several books to her already towering stack. She would have more than enough to work with now, she thought as she rubbed at her eyes, wondering distractedly at the time. The sunlight that had flooded through the West windows of the library when she had arrived at the end of her Double Divination class was long gone, and the room was now lit only by candle-light and wall sconces.   
  
As she pulled another heavy tome from the shelf, Millicent again heard the obnoxious chatter of the presumed Gryffindors. They were getting closer; she could easily hear their conversation at this point. Glancing to her right, she finally saw the offending students walking leisurely down the aisle between the rows. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, two thirds of the infamous Gryffindor trio.   
  
Millicent moved closer to the poorly lit wall at the opposite end of the row and stilled herself instinctively, trying to concentrate on the titles of the books before her and hoping the couple would pass quickly and leave her to her work. She sighed when they abruptly stopped walking, directly in her view at the end of the row. Still talking, neither seemed to have noticed her.   
  
It quickly became obvious that they weren't likely to move on any time soon and Millicent suddenly felt ridiculous, less like she'd been trying to avoid them and almost as though she were trying to spy on them. This was definitely more Draco's field of expertise than hers. Still, she could not manage to focus on her work through the disruption of their conversation, amplified in the space that had, moments before, been almost completely silent. Frowning, Millicent gave up her attempt to ignore them, and listened instead as the Gryffindors continued to speak, their dialogue still centered around what seemed to be a disastrous Quidditch match.  
  
"It was unbelievable, Hermione. Seamus passed the Quaffle to Neville seven times before he ever caught it, and when he finally did, a Bludger knocked him off his broom."  
  
"Poor Neville. I can't believe he's trying out again. Is he all right?"  
  
"Well, he's in the hospital wing, but nothing's broken," Ron paused thoughtfully. "Really, it could be worse. I mean, remember last year when he tried out for Keeper? I don't think anyone had ever got stuck _in_ a Quidditch hoop before."  
  
Hermione laughed and shook her head.  
  
"And you should have seen Harry. He's been trying to keep his patience, but I don't think I've ever seen him so close to losing it before. He's going mad."  
  
Millicent watched their faces as they spoke. Ron was animated, vivacious. Hermione looked tired - exhausted really - but Ron's happiness seemed to be infectious, for her own face reflected his smile sincerely. At the mention of Harry, however, she abruptly changed the subject, her brow suddenly furrowed in a look of intense concern.   
  
"Ron, how is Harry? I've barely spoken to him all week. He's just been so... quiet."  
  
Ron nodded and placed his hands gently on Hermione's shoulders, ran them down her arms and finally clasped her hands in his own. "He says he's all right, but I know what you mean."  
  
"What was he like at the Burrow?" It looked as though Hermione had tensed a bit at Ron's touch, but Ron seemed perfectly at ease with the small affection.  
  
Winding his fingers through Hermione's, Ron smiled. "He seemed happy."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah, we all had a great time. You should have been there. We missed you. I missed you." Ron looked down, honesty making him momentarily shy.  
  
Millicent looked away. This was beyond uncomfortable - eavesdropping had never been her style, but voyeurism was truly beneath her.   
  
"Ron..." Hermione's voice sounded strange, hesitant, and when Millicent looked back at the couple, it was in time to see Ron bend down and give Hermione a chaste kiss on the cheek. Millicent cringed, but didn't bother to look away again.   
  
"I've got to get to bed if I'm going to be up for practice tomorrow. Don't stay here all night." Ron stepped backwards, his hands lingering on Hermione's. As he disappeared from Millicent's view, Hermione sighed, then began to leaf through the stack of parchments in her arms as she - of course, Millicent thought - stepped absently into the row where Millicent had so far gone unnoticed.  
  
Hermione started when she realized she was not alone, then gasped in horrified realization of with exactly whom she now shared the cramped, well-concealed space in the row. An expression of embarrassment darted across her face, followed by one of unmistakable anxiety. Her posture tense, she took a few steps backward. "So sorry." Hermione began to turn, but Millicent, eyebrows raised in some surprise, spoke first.  
  
"Don't bother. I was just leaving." Summoning her stack of books and swinging her bag over her shoulder, Millicent pressed past the Gryffindor and walked toward the library exit.   
  
It had been some time since she'd last come into such direct contact with Hermione, nearly four years in fact. A somewhat guilty smile tugged at Millicent's lips as she remembered their brief, but violent partnership in the short-lived Hogwarts Dueling Club. She hadn't really hurt the girl that night, though Carling's reprimand had been severe. But since releasing her from that headlock, second year, Millicent had barely spared Hermione a second thought. She could not deny a sort of distant respect for the girl - after all, Hermione was, and had for some time been, an established hero, scholar, and general over-achiever. The rest of the Slytherins acknowledged this fact grudgingly, if at all. Millicent, however, had learned from Carling at a very young age to recognize greatness without being threatened by it.  
  
They had shared several classes over the years, of course, and they had occasionally crossed paths in the library and the halls of the school, but while most of Millicent's classmates considered the Gryffindors - and Mudbloods in particular - to be fair game, Millicent had never sought them out. As a child, she'd been indiscriminate in her bullying, as hard on her fellow Slytherins as students from the other houses. Now she more or less kept to herself unless directly provoked, a rare occurrence indeed, especially outside of Slytherin House. While her housemates bickered and picked fights with the Gryffindors, Millicent all but ignored her "sworn rivals".   
  
As such, Millicent thought it strange that Hermione might still harbor something akin to fear towards her after all these years.   
  


**********

  
  
  
When Keeping asked for volunteers to present their topic proposals Tuesday afternoon, Hermione's was only one of many hands in the air. Keeping glanced around the room, then pointed to the back row and nodded. Hermione looked over her shoulder and watched as Millicent Bulstrode moved slowly to the front of the room, noting that the usually aloof and composed Slytherin looked slightly self-conscious as she shuffled the parchments in her hand and coughed.   
  
Millicent pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, then looked down at her classmates through narrowed eyes as though she were waiting for a challenge. When none was posed, she began to speak.  
  
"I intend to write a comparative thesis on contemporary Muggle Paganism and genuine Wizardry..." she began evenly, whatever trace of anxiety Hermione had thought she'd seen in the girl completely gone. With some surprise, Hermione listened as Millicent continued her presentation, loosely describing the discrepancies between the ideas of Muggle witchcraft and real magic. It wasn't that Hermione was surprised at Millicent's very apparent intelligence - she'd heard over the summer that Millicent had managed to obtain eleven O.W.L.s last year, only one less than Hermione's twelve. The surprise was that Millicent had chosen not only a very specific topic on what must surely be an unfamiliar subject for a Pureblood witch, but that her proposal was almost identical to Hermione's own.   
  
Hermione felt a flush creep up her neck to her face as she anxiously began shuffling through her parchments. Over the next few minutes, Millicent covered most of the points in Hermione's notes, and a few more. Millicent was vague in her descriptions of the issues she intended to study, but her notes were well-organized, her proposal quite eloquent, and it was clear that she had a good grasp on the subject. As she brought her proposal to a close and returned to her seat, Keeping nodded and smiled in approval, then called for another volunteer.  
  
Hermione shrank back in her chair and listened distractedly to the presentations of the students who followed Millicent. Most of them seemed quite enthusiastic about their respective topics, and Keeping was obviously impressed with their ideas. When every student but Hermione had presented, Keeping pointed at her and smiled encouragingly. She drew in a deep breath, feeling foolish. Dean Thomas nudged her. "Go on, Hermione. When have you ever been shy in class?"  
  
Taking her place at the front of the room, Hermione cleared her throat and glanced at her classmates. Her eyes briefly met Millicent's, and feeling her blush resurface, Hermione looked away as she began to speak, repeating Millicent's proposal almost word for word. She carefully avoided the Slytherin's piercing gaze throughout the rest of her proposal, but didn't miss the thoughtful expression on Keeping's face. When she reached the end of her presentation, Hermione broke into a hasty apology.   
  
"Of course I realize it would be for the best if I changed my topic entirely. I could have another proposal prepared by Thursday."  
  
"Well Miss Granger," Keeping smiled thoughtfully. "You do have that option. But really, it's not necessary. I never specifically said that two students couldn't pursue the same topic independently. But, I think you might also consider a partnership with Miss Bulstrode. Your varying perspectives on the matter could make for a very... interesting project."  
  
Hermione smiled weakly but said nothing. Keeping nodded in understanding and looked past Hermione at Millicent. "Just something to think about."  
  
Hermione gave a half-hearted nod, but really, there was nothing appealing in the idea. It was difficult enough to work with Slytherins by force. She could hardly imagine partnering with Millicent Bulstrode, or any Slytherin for that matter, voluntary. And on what would surely be such a sensitive subject between a Pureblood and a Muggle-born, a Slytherin and a Gryffindor. Indeed, Hermione felt she already had a fair idea of what a Slytherin might think of Muggles who fancied themselves witches. Besides, there was no doubt of Millicent's opinion of working willingly with a Gryffindor.  
  
Keeping stood up, beaming. "I'm beyond impressed with what I've seen here today and I'm very much looking forward to following your progress in the weeks to come."  
  
With class dismissed, Hermione walked hurriedly out the door, Dean at her side. "Rough, that. What were the chances of you both choosing the same subject?" he offered sympathetically.  
  
"Well, there's nothing to be done about it now. I'm heading to the library." Hermione's mind was already racing with new ideas for her paper topic. Perhaps something in regard to one of the various on-going equal rights movements in the Muggle world. Or Muggle Music. Or Post-Modern art...  
  
"But Ron said you were coming to watch the practice."  
  
"Oh, I forgot! Dean, will you tell him I'm sor-"  
  
"Wait, Granger."  
  
Hermione and Dean stopped short and turned, Hermione's eyes widening in unconcealed surprise. Millicent Bulstrode was walking purposefully down the hallway, looking even larger and more intimidating than usual, Hermione thought. Since the Dueling Club disaster during their second year, Hermione had avoided Millicent to the best of her ability. That night, at barely twelve years old, Hermione had been faced with the reality of her mortality for the second time in her life.   
  
The other students filing out of the classroom passed the unfolding scene with raised eyebrows as Hermione instinctively took a step back, her eyes locked on the towering figure approaching. Had Hermione's eyes and mind not been so completely focused on Millicent's decidedly unpleasant face, she might have noticed the hint of uncertainty it bore.  
  
Millicent stopped several feet away and crossed her arms. Dean looked at Hermione cautiously. "Should I wait?"  
  
"I - that's all right Dean, go ahead. "Dean looked doubtfully at the two girls, then reluctantly turned away.  
  
"Well, what do you think?" Millicent asked finally, looking in annoyance past Hermione and presumably to the retreating figure of Dean.  
  
"Wh-what?" Hermione stole a glance down the hall herself in time to see Dean turn a corner and disappear.   
  
"About the partnership."  
  
Hermione looked back at Millicent sharply. She opened her mouth in disbelief then firmly closed it. Millicent couldn't possibly be serious. If there had ever been a successful Gryffindor/Slytherin partnership, it had certainly been before Hermione's time at Hogwarts. The very idea of a student from either house proposing the idea by her own free will was just absurd.   
  
"It's a yes or no question, Granger."  
  
Hermione looked at Millicent in scrutiny, finally managing to shake her head.   
  
"I thought not," Millicent said with a nod, her lips curling into a faint, wry smile.   
  
As she watched Millicent turn and slowly stride down the hall, Hermione furrowed her brows and bit at her lip in confusion. Had Millicent been in earnest? Or had that been some sort of dare? If Millicent had asked merely in hopes of creating conflict, she'd certainly given up easily, especially considering their solitude in the hall. Could Millicent possibly have been sincere? Hermione frowned. But when had the term "sincere" ever been seriously applied to a Slytherin?  
  
Still, as Millicent's deliberate pace led her further down the hall, Hermione wondered...  
  
Millicent was smart, that much was obvious. And if today's class was any indication, she worked hard as well. Maybe there was some potential there. Hermione shook her head. But how could there be? Millicent Bulstrode was easily the least approachable, most feared girl in all of Hogwarts, and within her own house too - all with good reason. Millicent was the only student in the entire school who could leave Hermione so unsettled with only a single glance.   
  
But Hermione was a Gryffindor. A student set apart by her bravery, just as Millicent was famed for coldness and hostility. She shouldn't have been so quick to say no, even if she had, only a moment ago, been so sure that Millicent had meant the question as some sort of trick. Slytherins were certainly masters of deceit. But what if -   
  
Hermione began to walk hastily down the hall after the Slytherin. She paused. This was insane. Almost certainly a mistake. Was she really going to let herself be so easily baited? She again began to move forward, confused by her own intent.   
  
"Wait, stop!" Hermione wondered at the strangeness of her own voice. It sounded distant, thin.   
  
Millicent stopped and turned, her dark eyes flashing with surprise in the dim, flickering light of the hall. Hermione stopped ten feet from Millicent, her mind swimming. She opened her mouth, struggling momentarily for words. Millicent merely looked wondering, curious, the expression strange on her face.   
  
"I -" Hermione paused. Squaring her shoulders and forcing her chin up, Hermione met and held Millicent's odd, inquisitive gaze. "I think, maybe... I want to... it might be a good idea. To work together."  
  
Millicent's eyebrows lifted briefly. "It would?" The question came out heavy with disbelief, as though the last thing Millicent had expected was the acceptance of her offer.   
  
Hermione nodded uncertainly, again wondering if she'd been wrong, if Millicent hadn't been serious. The girl certainly looked as though she'd been taken by surprise.  
  
"Well." The girls looked at each other for a moment, guardedly, each trying to assess the other. Millicent's startled, unsure expression was replaced with one of belief, of understanding, and as she relaxed the tension in the hall lessened. The barest hint of a smile appeared on her face. "Well," Millicent repeated. "I... I'll see you in the library." Millicent turned and resumed her purposeful walk toward the Slytherin dorms, only once glancing back at Hermione as she left.  
  
Hermione closed her eyes. What had she done?  
  
  
  
TBC...   
  
A huge thanks to my beta, Lasair, who is once again the reason my writing is worth reading. If you haven't already, DO check out Veela Magic (http://www.schnoogle.com/authorLinks/Lasair/Veela_Magic). It's brilliant.  
  
Also, an equally huge thanks to everyone who reviewed my first chapter. You know who you are - you precious few are my heroines. Your comments mean the world to me! Group hug!   
  
The title and the Angela Carter quote come from _The Lady of the House of Love_, which comes from The Bloody Chamber. Highly recommended. Perhaps something to keep you busy until my next update. ;)   
  
In the next chapter, you'll find some tension, some injuries, and some general awkwardness.   
  
This fic is now available at Schnoogle (http://www.schnoogle.com/authorLinks/Miss_Mona/).   
  



	3. Oscillate Wildly

A/N: Still SLASH. Beware the girls what may one day kiss on the mouth.  
  
** DISCLAIMER**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
  
My thanks to Lasair, who knows everything but still manages to keep her patience and temper in the face of my abuse of both canon and the English language.  
  
  
**Chapter 3: Oscillate Wildly**   
  
  


**********  


  
  
  
On Friday evening, Millicent had not stayed long at dinner; her housemates' glares and whispers had rather ruined her appetite. Instead, after making a brief stop at the Hogwarts kitchens, where she was always met with enthusiasm, she had gone outside to walk the path around the lake. However, the air had been unusually hot and moist for a September evening, and she had soon tossed her half-eaten sandwich to the giant squid and returned to the castle. Bypassing the still empty common room, she'd gone directly to her dorm. Millicent had spent the remainder of the hour flipping through the Grimoire, but it had not been long before she'd heard the stir of the returning Slytherins downstairs. Shortly after, Blaise had entered the room. Millicent had barely looked up before returning her attention to the book, and Blaise had not said hello.  
  
Now, having settled herself on her bed, Blaise removed her school robes and began to work at the buttons of her blouse, eyeing Millicent intently all the while. Blaise's total lack of inhibition was the result of years of familiarity, but as always, Millicent looked away. It had always seemed unfair that Millicent should have to share a living space with a body like Blaise's. Particularly since the owner of said body had never been affected with the slightest suggestion of modesty. After tucking the Grimoire safely back in her robes pocket, Millicent retrieved the velvet bag that held her tarot deck from under her pillow, barely aware of a half-dressed Blaise now standing some distance away.   
  
Tugging at the loosely knotted drawstring of the bag, Millicent withdrew the deck. The cards made up a single edition of woodblock prints, designed and printed by Carling's own grandmother, Astley Bulstrode. Astley had been one of the more artistic witches of the line, and a remarkably talented diviner. The deck was attractive, if perhaps a bit dated, and quite simple in its design. Like most wizarding decks, it was heavily based on traditional tarot designs, and the images on the Major Arcana and the Court cards were charmed to move. In a flawless loop, figures continually plummeted to their deaths on the Tower card. The Lovers were shamelessly affectionate, occasionally shooting the reader a cheeky glance in the midst of their passions. Death merely walked endlessly toward the reader, scythe in hand, but while the scenery changed, he never moved past the midground of the scene.  
  
As neither Astley's daughter nor Carling had ever been much inclined towards the arts of divining, the deck had passed over a century in various states of neglect. Millicent, however, could barely remember a time before the cards had been hers. Carling had spotted her for a sensitive by age eight, at the latest. She had been ten when Alden had found her asleep on the floor of his library surrounded by books on palmistry, and thirteen when she'd cut her first set of runes.   
  
Though Carling herself had had little interest in the divinatory arts, she was not one to dismiss another's attraction to them. Patiently, she'd guided Millicent in divination as best she could, but by the end of Millicent's fourth year at Hogwarts, Millicent was a considerably more proficient diviner than Carling had ever been. Of course, like most witches and wizards, Millicent had talent in several fields of magical study. While she enjoyed the self-introspection and vague insights into the possible future offered in divination, it was hardly her only interest.   
  
Vaguely aware of Blaise's movements through the room, Millicent laid out a short tarot spread, not looking up again until she heard the faint rustle of silk against skin. Now wearing a long dressing gown, Blaise stood at the other end of the room pulling a comb through her hair. She was still watching Millicent, but her face betrayed neither hostility nor warmth. Finally, Millicent lifted one questioning eyebrow, and after a moment Blaise opened her mouth as if to speak.   
  
Before she could, however, the door banged open. Both girls started and turned as Draco Malfoy brusquely entered the room. Unlike Blaise, Draco had never been one for hiding his emotions. His lips were drawn to a thin line, his already hollow cheekbones sucked in with fury. After shooting a meaningful look at Blaise, he turned his gaze to Millicent. Indignant, but without protest, Blaise pushed past him, her black silk dressing gown clutched closed by one hand at her throat.   
  
"Hello, Draco." Millicent nodded at Draco calmly, and then began stacking the cards. She'd not needed a reading to know to expect Draco's arrival. It had only been a matter of time. Really, she thought, it was amazing that it had taken him three days to find out.   
  
Draco met her greeting with a dangerous smile, fury sparking behind his narrowed eyes. Millicent smiled back. "What do you want, Draco?"  
  
"Everything," he replied automatically. A typical Slytherin response, and something of a joke between them.  
  
Millicent completed the saying. "And so do I." Replacing the tarot deck in the bag and gesturing towards Pansy's bed, she continued. "But we can't both have it."   
  
Ignoring her invitation to sit, Draco remained standing near the open door, his slim arms folded across his chest, his shoulders hunched childishly. Already growing impatient, Millicent stood instead, crossing the long, dim room in a few measured steps. She closed the door hard, then turned and looked down at Draco. Face to face she stood a full five inches taller than he. Her size had always been an asset in conflict, she thought, as Draco's venomous expression momentarily gave way to one of distinct unease. Millicent grinned.  
  
Instantly Draco regained his composure, straightening to his full height and dropping his hands to his hips. Irritated, likely more with himself than with Millicent, he snapped, "I'd never considered you might be into the waifish, heroic type."  
  
Millicent lifted a dismissive eyebrow. "Is that what this is about? Honestly, Draco. Never crossed my mind."   
  
"Then what the hell is this, Millicent? Just trying to get a rise out of me?"   
  
Millicent laughed in spite of herself. Draco never had quite realized that the world truly did not revolve around him. His upbringing, of course, made that fact understandable, but hardly excusable. "You're being ridiculous, Draco."  
  
"_Me_?" Clearly offended, Draco raised his voice. "I'm not the one-"  
  
"No, Draco." Millicent interrupted. "You're _not_ the one. This has nothing to do with you."  
  
Draco was outraged. He stepped closer and hissed. " Don't expect me to defend you this time, Millicent." For an instant, Millicent thought she saw pleading behind those cold gray eyes, but she impulsively responded to the insult in his words.   
  
"I've never expected your _'protection'_, Draco. I've never needed it." Her tone was clipped, weighted with her irritation, but still lowered and steady.  
  
"You're a fool if you think you don't," Draco laughed, unbelieving.  
  
Millicent smiled slightly. "What I think," she answered, "is that people should mind their fucking business."  
  
Open-mouthed, Draco stared, then abruptly turned and left the room. Anger bubbled up in Millicent, and on top of that, frustration. Since Tuesday she'd spent much time contemplating telling Draco about her new partnership herself. It had not been cowardice that had stopped her, but an indulgent attempt to hold onto and enjoy the calm before the storm.   
  
Sighing, Millicent returned to her bed. She sat down hard, then stood up again and began to pace.   
  
What Millicent had always considered to be her least Slytherin characteristic was her tendency to act without thinking. Or, at least, without thinking enough. At age twelve, as she'd been pulled from a scuffle with a sobbing Pansy Parkinson, a very impatient Professor Snape had cursed her impulsive nature, saying that such rash stupidity belonged in Gryffindor, but had no place in Slytherin.   
  
On Tuesday afternoon, Millicent had been certain that in making that offer, she'd surprised herself much more than she'd surprised Hermione. She had seen potential and had grasped at it. It had been a moment too late that she'd remembered the risk she had been taking. In her mind, collaboration between herself and a Gryffindor was trivial. However, she held no illusions toward what would be her housemates' opinions, and Draco's most of all. In their minds, this matter would be seen as betrayal, construed as a willing alliance with a Muggle-born. Millicent's attitudes toward Voldemort's new rise had already unnerved many of her classmates. This would be confirmation of their suspicions, however accurate those might be. Still, Millicent did not regret making the offer - though she had to admit that its acceptance had come as a shock - because she had never been one to believe in coincidence. That both girls had chosen the same subject led to the supposition that perhaps there was some greater reason behind it.   
  
Of course, Millicent claimed no certainty about the dynamics of fate, either.   
  
  
  


**********

  
  
  
Millicent leaned back in her chair with a deep sigh. It was Thursday afternoon, and her Advanced Muggle Studies class was drawing to its end. She glanced to her left, where Hermione Granger sat, scribbling notes on a long crumpled parchment, her other splayed hand holding her place in the book laid out before her on the table they shared. Millicent frowned.   
  
For a project meant to be a joint effort, very little had been said between the two girls, not just today, but over the course of the past ten days. They'd taken to sitting together during class and had informally met in the library several times, but they almost always worked solitarily, only occasionally stopping their work to compare their notes. Through these written exchanges it was clear to Millicent that, as she'd expected, the girls shared a thorough, methodical mentality. However, Hermione's caution had not much waned since the beginning of their "collaboration". She wasn't cold, just too careful; too quiet. While distrust was hardly uncommon to Millicent, Hermione's distance was keeping Millicent on edge. Millicent, for the first time, allowed herself to wonder if she'd made a mistake in asking for the Gryffindor's partnership. Everyone else certainly seemed to find the situation illogical.   
  
Their classmates had, naturally, been surprised at the partnership, particularly that it had been established by choice, but little had been openly said about the matter. Of course, it had not taken long for the news to spread through the Hogwarts student body.   
  
Once Draco had found out, the subject had become common knowledge.  
  
Draco and a number of the other Slytherins had been ignoring her since Friday, and she was finding herself the subject of many a skeptical stare from students of the other houses as well. That of itself was not much of a difference, really, but she was finding it difficult to readjust to Draco's hostility after so many years of friendship, and even more so to respond without betraying her own aggressive tendencies. Her original certainty that he'd come around in time was fading daily. Carling had warned her years ago that the friendships of youth could not always survive the conflicting opinions of adulthood. She had been right, of course, and while Millicent was finding that she missed Draco very much, she knew well enough that the likelihood of their reconciliation was doubtful at best.   
  
That their divergence had come of what, to Millicent, was so small a matter, was regrettable, but as Millicent began to accept the fact that, in time, this turn of events would have manifested itself in one form or another, she comforted herself with the thought that it truly could have been worse.  
  
The scratching of Hermione's quill slowed, and the girl looked up, meeting Millicent's gaze with open curiosity. Millicent quickly looked away, realizing with embarrassment that she'd been staring. Slowly the scratch of Hermione's quill resumed. "I'll be in the library later, if you're interested," Millicent said as she began stacking her papers and books.  
  
"I can't tonight." Hermione's tone was faintly apologetic, but distracted.  
  
Remembering that tonight was the final day of Quidditch trials, Millicent nodded. Ron, Harry, Quidditch… logical. "I'd forgotten about the trials," Millicent said.  
  
Again Hermione stopped writing and looked up. She suddenly looked quite tired, Millicent thought, noting the dark circles below Hermione's eyes. Already her summer tan was fading to a winter pallor, and the only color on her face aside from a smattering of faint freckles across the bridge of her nose was a spot on the left of her chin.  
  
"It's not just that," Hermione said, sighing. "It's my birthday. I've been encouraged to.. err… take the day off."  
  
Millicent smiled a little at this. Hermione didn't seem comfortable with the idea, though she looked badly in need of some rest. Millicent herself wished she had such an excuse, or such an opportunity. But daily, it was growing more and more evident that her struggles, academic and otherwise, were just beginning. She'd wondered if Hermione was facing similar troubles in Gryffindor House. Somehow, it seemed unlikely. "Sixteen?"  
  
"Seventeen, actually." Hermione smiled slightly in return.  
  
Millicent nodded, dimly surprised. She should, by this age, have been used to always looking older than her classmates, when she so often was not. "Well, happy birthday, then."  
  
Hermione's "thank you" was lost as Keeping dismissed the class.  
  
  
  


**********

  
  
  
Hermione made her way slowly towards the Quidditch stands. The sun was low over the Forbidden Forest, but the day was still stiflingly hot, the heat riding heavily on the shoulders of the students out of doors. Beads of perspiration had wetted the curls around Hermione's hairline, and though she had much earlier abandoned her school robes for some light Muggle clothing, she was still miserable. The Quidditch field seemed a far distance.   
  
Hermione jumped slightly as a multi-colored blur zoomed past, circled behind her, then stopped quite suddenly before her. Ron dismounted his broom with easy grace and looked down at Hermione in disapproval before snatching the Transfiguration book she'd held in the crook of her arm.   
  
"Haven't they started yet?" Hermione reached ineffectively for her book as Ron hopped back and grinned.  
  
His eyebrows raised, he ignored her question. "What," he asked, "Is this? You promised you'd take the night off."   
  
Hermione yawned, still reaching for the book. "And I will - I just have one chapter to read." Ron cocked his head, a doubtful, knowing smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He took another playful step back as she lunged for the book. "Just one, Ron." Ron waved the book in the air, well beyond Hermione's reach. Hermione couldn't help smiling. "Weasley, you do realize that as a prefect I could take points for this."  
  
Ron laughed and shook his head, then handed back the book and snaked one long arm around Hermione's waist. "I love a woman with power," her murmured. Hermione half laughed and half cringed as he pulled her into a tight embrace; the heat rising off his body was almost too much to bear. Planting a solid kiss on Hermione's temple, he pulled away and remounted his broom. "Walk faster, or you'll miss it. And you'd better not read the whole time."   
  
Hermione felt a flush rising to her cheeks as Ron took to the air. She stole a self-conscious glance behind her. About twenty feet back, Lavender and Parvati were grinning at her suggestively. Lavender winked. Hermione's blush deepened, and she again began to walk towards the field, this time faster. Why Ron always felt the need to be so affectionate in public… Hermione frowned. He was worse in private. She'd been busy enough since school had started to avoid his attention for the most part, but only the night before he'd cornered her in the common room after she'd returned from the library.   
  
Hermione had been faintly surprised to learn in her fifth year that Ron was, in fact, quite a talented kisser. He was perhaps not as skilled as Viktor Krum had been, but kissing Ron was pleasant. Better than pleasant, actually, she mused. Still, it seemed wrong somehow, like kissing a cousin, or worse, a sibling.   
  
Hermione thought it ironic that she'd ever assumed that everything that had been missing in Viktor would somehow be found in Ron. Last night, Ron had breathed her name against her lips and Hermione had opened her eyes to discover that her shirt was half open, and Ron's hands inside it. Nothing less than horrified at the realization of how far things had almost gone, she'd all but run to her room.   
  
So much for Gryffindor chivalry, she thought, at once ashamed of the injustice of thinking it. It takes two, she reminded herself with a sigh.  
  
Ron had been nervously apologetic at breakfast, and that had only lent her the certainty that _she_ was the problem. For once, Hermione felt at a loss for a solution. She didn't even feel that she was in possession of the necessary energy to attempt finding one. Her studies were exhausting, her prefect duties were exhausting, and Ron…   
  
Hermione reached the stands at last, and took a seat next to Neville Longbottom. Noting the look of utter disappointment on his round face, she smiled at him sympathetically before following his longing gaze to the sky.  
  
The dozen or so wizards and witches soaring through the air were all that remained of the Gryffindor team's prospective players. Ron and Ginny were among them, both performing impressively. Hermione watched long enough to see Ron smack a Bludger in Harry's direction before she opened her Transfiguration text.   
  
A few pages later, Hermione rubbed her eyes and glanced up. Harry flew by slowly, looking more relaxed on his broom than she'd ever seen him. Tonight his only concerns were studying his potential teammates and avoiding Bludgers. She scanned the sky for the telltale red Weasley hair, found it, then looked back down. After another half hour of shifting her attention between the sky and the book, she felt certain that she'd been "reading" the same page for some time.   
  
Stifling a yawn, Hermione closed her eyes. Just for a moment, she thought as she drifted to the warm place between sleep and consciousness.  
  
When she heard her name being called, first by one voice, then by several, she looked up again, her mind barely registering horror before she heard a scream. That it was her own was immaterial.  
  
  
  


**********

  
  
  
Hermione awoke to a strange rasping sound, rising and fading in a slow, consistent rhythm. A moment passed before she decided with some degree of vague satisfaction that the sound was her own ragged breathing. What might have caused her body to produce such an unhealthy wheeze was beyond her current capacity of concern.   
  
Hermione forced her eyes open to find herself facing a familiar high ceiling at the end of an expanse of dim space. The sheer, white curtain pulled around her tugged at her memory, too. Thinking hard, Hermione pushed her chin to her chest and saw her arms lying limply across her blue and white striped chest. Not her pajamas. The hard bed beneath her was fitted in white sheets, and a stiff blue blanket was laid carefully over her legs.   
  
Slowly, Hermione flexed her hands, amazed at the amount of effort this seemed to take, and intensely aware of the feel of cool air against her sweaty fingers. She blinked a few times, trying to settle the distant thoughts that ambled through her mind.  
  
The Hogwarts infirmary? But it couldn't be June already.   
  
Hermione pushed back the bedclothes and sat up. She was damp with sweat, and everything around her seemed fuzzy, unsteady. A gnawing sense of pain was descending upon her, both distracting her from and adding to her confusion. Shifting, she pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes and winced, suddenly aware of a dull ache on the right side of her face. She pulled her hands away, then tentatively returned one and patted at what seemed to be swollen flesh. She groaned.  
  
With a few awkward movements, Hermione pushed her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her bare feet met the cold stone floor. She paused a moment, taking a number of deep breaths, then stood. After another pause, she took a few fumbling steps. At once, she wished she hadn't. Gripping the bedpost, she vainly tried to steady herself. Her head pounded in protest to any movement, and she was alarmed to feel her legs weakening beneath her. She swallowed and closed her eyes, trying to suppress a sudden wave of nausea. It was too much.   
  
She knew she couldn't stand much longer, but wasn't certain she could maneuver herself back into a sitting position either.  
  
She looked up as the curtain before her was pulled aside, the sudden movement of her head forcing her to sway unsteadily. Immediately, Madam Pomfrey rushed to her side, gripping her elbows and leading her back to the bed. "You shouldn't be up so soon, Miss Granger."  
  
"What happened?" Hermione managed to say, her tongue clumsy within her mouth. Hermione licked her lips, annoyed by the thick slur of her voice.  
  
"Quidditch Injury." Madam Pomfrey helped Hermione sit down and gently pushed her back against the pillows she'd propped against the headboard.  
  
"Quidditch? But I don't... oh." Hermione's memory returned in a rush. She'd been in the stands when someone had called her name, and as she'd looked up... "Oh."  
  
"Don't worry dear, nothing too serious." Hermione took little comfort in that claim as Madam Pomfrey began prodding and rubbing at Hermione's very tender shoulder. "Seems to be healing nicely."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your collarbone. I've given you a potion for your head as well-"  
  
"Collarbone?"  
  
"Yes, broken collarbone. I could heal the black eye-" With this, Madam Pomfrey's deft touch brushed the sore spot on Hermione's cheek.  
  
"Black eye? How...?"  
  
Madam Pomfrey frowned as she moved her attention to the back of Hermione's head. "As Mr. Longbottom tells it, the Bludger hit you in the shoulder, but you hit your head on the bench behind you."  
  
"And the black eye?"   
  
Madam Pomfrey gestured toward the Transfiguration text on the otherwise empty bedside table. "It hit you when you fell."  
  
Bludgeoned by her own work ethic. How appropriate. Hermione grimaced as Madam Pomfrey located the remains of a large knot on the back of her head.  
  
"As I was saying, I could heal the black eye too, but your body's already under a good deal of stress. It would be best to wait until tomorrow before administering any more potions. You'd do well to stay a couple of nights regardless." Hermione bolted upright, then weakly fell back against the pillows again. "Miss Granger, please don't strain yourself any further. Your body is showing signs of exhaustion completely unrelated to your injuries today. You need to relax. Professor McGonagall should never have allowed you to take so many classes." Madam Pomfrey's tone became disapproving and distracted as she conjured a pitcher of water and a glass.  
  
The idea of spending so much time in the clinic had sobered Hermione considerably. She was pleased to find her tongue complying with her commands once more. "Madam Pomfrey, I absolutely cannot stay here. I have classes! I'm a prefect!" Madam Pomfrey placed the cup in Hermione's hand.  
  
"There there, your teachers will understand."  
  
"But it's my birthday!"  
  
The mediwitch sighed. "Several of your friends have been waiting outside. At Professor McGonagall's suggestion, I've agreed to let them visit with you for a little while. When and if you're feeling up to it."  
  
Hermione hesitated.   
  
"I could send them away, if you like," Madam Pomfrey suggested hopefully.  
  
Hermione took a small sip of the cool water, then looked up. "No, I think I would like to see them. For a moment."  
  
Madam Pomfrey frowned, but after adjusting Hermione's bedclothes and helping her into a more comfortable sitting position, she disappeared through the curtain. She returned with Ron and Harry, both of whom were still dressed in their Quidditch gear and carrying a couple of brightly wrapped parcels.  
  
"Five minutes, boys." Madam Pomfrey left, pulling the curtains closed.  
  
Hermione smiled weakly as the boys came forward, expressions of concern on both their faces, and something like guilt on Ron's. "How do you feel?" Ron gently kissed the left, un-bruised side of her face and then sat tentatively on the bed, taking her hand in his. Harry took the chair at the other side of Hermione's bed and gave her arm a gentle squeeze.  
  
"I've felt better," Hermione answered, suddenly grateful for their presence. The three of them had shared a number of intimate moments in the infirmary over the years. As Ron slipped an arm around her shoulder, Hermione even allowed herself to lean into the warmth of his embrace, forgetting, for a moment, her thoughts from the afternoon.  
  
"Did you make the team?" Hermione asked Ron, surprised to see - and feel - him tensing uncomfortably at the question.  
  
"They both did - Ron and Ginny," Harry answered proudly. "Though the trials were cut a bit short..."   
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Hermione said, as she realized the implications of the statement. Of course Harry and Ron would have left the practice when she'd been injured.  
  
"You're sorry? Oh Hermione, _I'm _sorry!" Ron looked quite pink.  
  
"Why?"   
  
"For…this." Ron only barely touched the bruising around Hermione's eye, then pulled his hand away as she flinched.  
  
"You...?" Hermione hadn't considered that one of the Weasleys must have been responsible. "Well, of course it was an accident." Hermione forced another faint smile. Ron looked somewhat relieved.  
  
Madam Pomfrey stuck her head through the curtain again. "Ms. Granger should get some rest."  
  
"But the presents -" Ron began to protest.  
  
"You can come back tomorrow." Madam Pomfrey's tone said that any argument would be in vain. Sighing, Ron pressed his lips to Hermione's hand, whispered another apology in her ear, then deposited the small pile of gifts on Hermione's bedside table. Harry bent to kiss her cheek as well, in a very uncommon, but not unwelcome gesture. "We'll be back first thing tomorrow," Ron promised. Hermione nodded drowsily as the boys departed.  
  
  
  


********** 

  
  
  
"Caraway." Millicent adjusted her bag as the door to the Slytherin common room swung open with a sharp whine. Briefly, every face in the room turned toward her, then just as quickly turned away again. Draco held her gaze as he murmured something to the small crowd surrounding him by the fire. The crowd snickered in response, and Draco smirked.  
  
Rolling her eyes, Millicent climbed the stairs to the girls' dorms. Another wave of laughter was cut short as she slammed the chamber door. Blaise jumped slightly at the sound, looked up, and smiled. She was sprawled out on her bed, apparently working on some sort of Transfiguration spell. As she exhaled a wisp of smoke from the cigarette cradled between her fingers, the smoke turned into a sweet smelling violet mist. The cigarette butts scattered across the floor indicated that she'd been working on this for some time. Millicent was certain that McGonagall would not have been amused. Nor would Snape, for that matter. "Honestly, Blaise." Millicent crossed the room and unlatched a window. She winced as a wave of heat flooded into the room. "There _are_ more creative ways to kill time."  
  
Attractive hollows appeared below Blaise's cheekbones as she inhaled. "And myself, as well, I'm sure. But with such aesthetic merit?" Millicent laughed as she moved to another window. She had once heard Mileva say the same. The dramatic value of the habit far outweighed its consequences. "Owl came for you."  
  
Millicent turned to see Blodwin, her father's massive Snowy owl, asleep atop the perch in the corner of the room. Millicent glanced at her bed, where a large parcel lay. Dropping her bag, she sat down and unwrapped the package.  
  
_Just the books you requested, and a few others that I thought might help with your research.  
Love,  
Alden_  
  
A number of paperback Muggle texts were enclosed, all of which had most likely been specially purchased in Cambridge. The gesture was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Alden had always eagerly encouraged Millicent's scholarly pursuits. Beneath these were three familiar hardback books from Alden's own collection. Millicent had searched for them in the Hogwarts library without success and had sent a letter to her father requesting them only a few days before.  
  
"Draco came by earlier. Said he was sorry to hear about your girlfriend."  
  
Millicent frowned thoughtfully as she looked up from the one of the garishly covered Muggle books. No matter what Draco had wanted to tell her, it was surprising that he'd wanted to talk to her at all. The look on Blaise's face, however, said clearly enough that he'd not come to make peace. Blaise had maintained her characteristic distance and indifference over the past week, but Millicent knew better than to underestimate the girl. Her passive watchfulness masked a pensive mind, and Blaise always seemed to know far more than she ever let on "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"How should I know?" Blaise asked as she pushed a perfect smoke ring through her smiling lips.  
  
  
  


**********

  
  
  
Harry held another Chocolate Frog out to Hermione, then passed it to Ron when she declined. A massive pile of sweet wrappers had been building up on the foot of Hermione's bed over the last half hour.   
  
As promised, Ron and Harry had returned first thing in the morning. Hermione, however, had spent much of the restless night on the thin line between consciousness and sleep, and had only really fallen asleep after the sun had risen. Madam Pomfrey had sent the boys away, determined that Hermione should rest. When they had loyally returned at noon, it was to find Hermione quite awake and considerably improved since the night before.   
  
Madam Pomfrey had seemed pleased by Hermione's condition, and she too had been happily surprised to find that despite her long restless night, she was feeling much better. Still, much to Hermione's annoyance, Madame Pomfrey stood firm on the necessity of another night's stay in the infirmary. She already felt well enough to return to her own dorm, as the dizziness and nausea that had plagued her the night before were completely gone. Aside from some lingering soreness around her shoulders and head, and the remaining bruising around her eye there was no sign of yesterday's injuries. When the boys had arrived with armfuls of sweets and sandwiches smuggled out of the kitchens, as well as a small prettily decorated cake from Dobby, she had been quite glad for their company.   
  
After they'd eaten, Hermione had opened her gifts. From Dean she'd received a beautiful hand-drawn "Get Well/Happy Birthday" card, signed by dozens of Gryffindor students. Harry had given her the newest edition of _Hogwarts: a History_ and an anthology of contemporary Muggle short stories. Ron had shyly handed her a small box, which opened to reveal a very pretty amber pendant on a thin silver chain. Hermione had allowed him to fasten the necklace, wondering at what it must have cost him. As her health had returned, so had her doubts, and Hermione felt strange at receiving what had likely been a costly gift from Ron when her feelings were so uncertain.   
  
Her parents' gifts had largely consisted of clothing and books as well as some money. A short letter had been included, but Hermione had barely glanced at it before tucking it into the pocket of her pajama top.  
  
Over the course of their summer holiday in Italy, Hermione had been distressed to realize that she had grown quite distant from her parents. She supposed that to some extent most children who went away to school felt this way, but for Hermione, it was a bit different.   
  
Upon receiving her Hogwarts letter, her parents had only briefly hesitated before agreeing that the opportunity should not be missed. The occasional odd happenings that had punctuated Hermione's childhood had been proof enough of the validity of the letter, and as the two Dr. Grangers had always been open-minded, it was decided that Hermione should, indeed, learn the arts of witchcraft and wizardry, no matter how foreign the concept.  
  
However, as supportive and encouraging as they had been and still were, Hermione's magic had created an impassible barrier between herself and her parents, and one that had only widened over the years.   
  
As an only child, Hermione had been the sole target of their attentions. They were, and always had been, overprotective. Hermione had thought it wise, even at age eleven, to somewhat limit their knowledge of the various goings-on at Hogwarts. She'd always hated lying to her parents, but they knew little of Voldemort or his powers, and would not understand how their daughter had become so closely involved with his assaults. As she'd grown more caught up in Harry's struggles against the dark wizard, Hermione had found herself lying to them more and more. In the summer, lovely and relaxing as it had been, she'd realized that her parents barely knew her at all, and that likewise, she barely knew them. The fleeting sadness she'd sometimes seen in her parents' eyes had confirmed that they felt that distance too.   
  
The letter resting in Hermione's pocket was only a reminder of this gradual loss of their connection. She knew it would be silly to send word of her recent injury, thinking back to their panicked confusion in second year when she'd been petrified. No, this too would remain a secret.  
  
Hermione did not long dwell on the matter, however, instead directing her attention to the simple and belated celebration of her birthday. Now the three Gryffindors were cramped on the small bed eating what was left of the cake and other various confections. At Hermione's request, Harry was giving a detailed recount of what she'd missed in Double Charms.   
  
"Honestly Hermione, I don't know what you're so worried about. You're a month ahead of the rest of the class," Ron said stickily through a mouthful of chocolate.   
  
"That's not _the point_, Ron." It was rare that Hermione missed any classes, and she'd, for a moment, been tempted to remind Ron that it was because of him that she had this time. Again she felt guilty for this recurring desire to unfairly blame Ron when he was not really at fault.   
  
"Really, half the class we just practiced tracking charms," Harry said hurriedly, as he looked nervously between his two best friends.   
  
Frowning, Hermione turned back to Harry. "Did he lecture?"  
  
"Just a bit, on the theory."  
  
"Did you take notes?"  
  
"Well, er, no," Harry admitted with a lopsided grin. "Did you Ron?"  
  
Ron appeared to be studying a Chocolate Frog card very intently. Hermione rolled her eyes. She'd have to talk to Dean. He, at least, was a reliably attentive student.  
  
"Hey, look at this," Ron said suddenly. Ron handed the Chocolate Frog card to Hermione.   
  
Reluctant to allow herself to be distracted, Hermione hesitated before taking the card. "Carling, 1885-1996," she read aloud. "A witch of the illustrious Bulstrode line-" Hermione looked up in surprise. "Bulstrode?"   
  
Ron nodded. "Yeah, I had no idea."  
  
Hermione nodded. "Credited with the development of hundreds of spells, charms, and potions, Carling is widely thought to be the most influential witch of the last two centuries."  
  
Harry leaned forward and peered at the card. "Well, now we know where Millicent got her looks." Hermione looked at the face of the stern witch pictured on the card. She couldn't deny feeling a bit unnerved by her piercing blue eyes and the heavy set of her jaw. "I've never heard of her," Harry said.  
  
"Everything is news to you, Harry." Ron grinned.  
  
"She is sort of a legend, Harry," Hermione said, trying not to betray her impatience.  
  
"But she was practically another Mad-Eye Moody. Not just in the face. She was really into her privacy," Ron added.  
  
"I hadn't even heard that she'd died," Hermione agreed. She'd been subscribing to the Daily Prophet for years now. It was odd that such an important death would have slipped her notice – or theirs.   
  
"My dad mentioned something about it over the summer. It was pretty recent."  
  
"Was she a dark witch?" Harry asked. The look on his face said he obviously believed so.  
  
"She did a lot of work for the Ministry," Ron said, shrugging.  
  
"I wonder if she and Millicent were close." Hermione had certainly never heard that the two were in any way connected. In fact, Hermione had only ever known Carling as Carling. What few books and newspaper articles she'd ever come across mentioning the witch had never identified her by last name.  
  
"Probably. She seems like a chip off the block," Ron grinned.  
  
"She's not that bad, Ron." Hermione was faintly surprised at the conviction in her voice.  
  
"If you say so." A fierce tension fell between the students at once. Ron and Harry glanced at each other warily, and Hermione frowned. The boys and most of the other Gryffindors had been tip-toeing around the subject of her willing partnership with Millicent all week. They had been appalled to learn that Hermione had not been forced into the project, but everyone knew better than to question Hermione's judgment (and inevitably awaken her temper). Because Hermione stood firm on the matter, her housemates had no choice but to accept it.   
  
While Hermione had grown fairly confident that she'd made the right decision, she did have some lasting doubts. Although Millicent had posed no real threat to Hermione since their second year - truly, she was one of few Slytherins who'd never felt the need to remind Hermione of her supposed genetic inferiority - her presence was, at times, quite unnerving. While Millicent was not even remotely hostile towards her, neither was she friendly. Aside from yesterday in class when Millicent had offered seemingly sincere birthday wishes, they'd barely spoken at all. Both girls clearly had their guards up, and Hermione was sure that their collaboration would never quite surpass the level of a pure business relationship.  
  
Despite this, Hermione was developing a genuine respect for her partner. Millicent lived up to her academic reputation, and she was as aggressive a scholar as she had ever been a bully. Though Hermione felt a distant admiration for the girl, she very much wished that they were not so affected by their houses' rivalry. Hoping for anything like a friendship would certainly be pointless. Still, Hermione had found herself jumping to Millicent's defense continually over the past week.   
  
Hermione was still glaring at Ron when the curtain around her bed was pushed aside once more. Tentatively, Ginny Weasley entered the small space around Hermione's bed, and a moment later she was followed by Ellis Bliss. Hermione noticed Harry's eyes light up at their arrival, and faintly she wondered which of the girls had inspired this. Distracted by this thought and the cheerful greetings of half the Gryffindor team, Hermione quite forgot her annoyance. "Help yourself to some cake," she offered.  
  
Ellis shook her head as Ginny took Ron's own half-eaten slice from his plate. Hermione didn't know Ellis well, as she was both a year younger and as obsessed with Quidditch as Oliver Wood had ever been, so when Ellis said "We actually just came by to bring you something," Hermione was surprised and curious. Hermione leaned forward as Ellis withdrew a couple of paperback books from her bag and passed them to her.  
  
"I ran into Millicent earlier. She asked me to get these to you this weekend," Ellis explained. The books in question were quite obviously from some Muggle shop, and both had titles relating to witchcraft. With interest, Hermione opened the first book. On each page there were countless brackets, arrows, and underlinings, as well as the occasional note asking, "What do you think?" in Millicent's slanted writing. Her fellow Gryffindors talked amongst themselves, not surprisingly, about Quidditch, as Hermione flipped through the books.   
  
By the time the four students had left for their afternoon classes, Hermione was thinking of nothing but her project.  
  
  
TBC  
  
  
Once again, a huge thanks to Lasair for betaing. Girly, you kick ass. There are no other words.  
  
"What do you want?..." was lifted from The Tricksters, by Margaret Mahy. I only wish I were that clever.  
  
"Oscillate Wildly" is a (gorgeous!) song by The Smiths.   
  
My immeasurable gratitude to everyone who's reviewed thus far (and to those of you who've plugged me!). Your feedback means more than you know, even the one-liners.   
  
Thanks especially to those of you who've kept in touch over the last couple of months for being so consistently supportive, encouraging, and in countless other ways wonderful while waiting for this long overdue chapter.   
  
In the chapter to come: a thoroughly snogged Draco, a lunar eclipse, more R/H tension, some revealing dialogue, and more!   



	4. Seeds

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
  
**Author notes:** Still slash. Between girls, too.   
  
Infinite thanks to my incredible betas, Lasair and Millefiori, whose praises are sung in greater detail below.  
  
  
**  
Chapter 4: Seeds**  
  
She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others She does not care to be herself.   
--Anais Nin   
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Widely acknowledged as fact was the idea that the Slytherin dormitories were located in the dungeons of Hogwarts.   
  
Millicent alternated between feelings of amusement and annoyance toward her non-Slytherin classmates and their willingness to believe this supposed exile of Slytherin house to the cold, barren depths of the castle. Amusement because no parent could realistically be expected to pay the tuition of the school only to have their children quartered underground. Anyone who believed otherwise invited the ridicule that Slytherins were always so delighted to impart. Annoyance because what those ridiculous students lacked in logic, they more than made up for in prejudice; Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and even the cleverest Ravenclaws did not question what, Millicent assumed, they thought a fitting dwelling situation for Slytherin House.   
  
Grudgingly, Millicent acknowledged that there was _some_ reason behind the assumption; the Slytherin common room was indeed located in the dungeons. The dorms, however, were in fact located on the castle's ground floor, accessible only through a steep, narrow staircase that began in the common room and ended at a wide landing in the center of a long hall. On each end of the hall were seven rooms - girls to the left and boys to the right. The dorms were spacious, attractively furnished, and very well – and naturally - lit. They were essentially everything the common room was not.   
  
While Millicent could, on some base level, appreciate the dramatic visual effect of the common room's decor, she had never been very fond of it. She found the low stone ceiling oppressive, the dim greenish lighting, chill humid air, and austere leather furniture less than inviting. And of course, the presence of her housemates had lately made the room even more off-putting than usual. Unfortunately, there was no other entrance to the dorms. At times this was an inconvenience, to say the least.   
  
Like the countless number of doors and staircases within Hogwarts, the dungeon corridors were known to frequently move, hide, and disappear altogether. This could become frustrating, but most Slytherins – Millicent included – agreed that the inconvenience was more than made up for by the privacy that the well-concealed common room entrance provided. Unfortunately, even now, Millicent found herself quite lost on occasion.   
  
This would be one of those occasions. Since leaving the library some twenty minutes ago, Millicent had been wandering around the dungeons like a lost first-year.   
  
Turning into another dead-end, Millicent groaned. Her growing irritation was only slightly quelled by the fact that it was a Sunday, not a school day, and she was only trying to find her way to the common room, not to a class. Millicent turned around, her heavy step pounding through the empty corridors. No matter her destination, she was tired and did not appreciate the corridors' annoying prank. Swearing, she said as much.  
  
Her voice echoed tauntingly down the long hall - familiar only because each hall varied little from the next – and eventually faded off as she came to a four-way junction that she was certain had not been there before. Stopping several feet short of the intersection, Millicent put down her books and pulled out her wand.  
  
"Point me," The wand, immediately responding to her command, began to spin in her palm.   
  
She hadn't even been walking in the right direction.   
  
Millicent picked up her books and rounded the left corner rather too sharply. Colliding hard with another student, she dropped both the wand and her books.   
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Millicent rubbed her shoulder and glared at the boy, whom she vaguely recognized as a Ravenclaw from her Arithmancy class. His eyes wide, he mumbled a nervous apology before hurrying toward the wand, which had rolled several feet away.  
  
Millicent kneeled and gathered her books, watching as the boy carefully picked up her wand between two fingers. He held it as far from himself as was possible, as if the wand might be as dangerous as he seemed to think its owner.   
  
Millicent thought it odd that she had not heard him coming until she noticed that the boy was carrying his shoes in one hand. More interesting was that his robes were draped over one arm. Thoughtfully, she took in the sharp red flush of the boy's cheeks and his slightly matted hair. She noted with interest that the boy's shirt was partially unbuttoned, opening at the neck to reveal flushed skin glistening with sweat. As he neared, holding the wand toward Millicent and stumbling through another timid apology, Millicent stood. Shrugging, she took her wand, then shoved past the boy, not bothering to tell him he was heading for a definite dead-end.  
  
Millicent had only walked a few more steps down the hall when Draco materialized through what had appeared to be a solid wall, tugging wrinkled robes over his very disheveled clothing.   
  
Comprehending at once, Millicent almost laughed, just managing to stop herself before Draco caught sight of her. Instead she nodded. Draco stilled and frowned. At length, he nodded back, then slid a slim arm through a sleeve of his robe.   
  
As he walked forward, she hesitated. "Malfoy…" she began, faintly aware that her mouth seemed to be acting independently from her pride.  
  
Working his hands through his uncharacteristically mussed hair, Draco passed Millicent without so much as a second glance. Consumed by first a surprising regret, then fury, Millicent turned to watch Draco's retreating figure.   
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Directly after her Arithmancy class on Monday afternoon, Hermione headed to the library. Madam Pince smiled favorably as she entered, and Hermione gave a broad grin in return. Since leaving the infirmary on Saturday morning, she'd hardly managed to shake off Ron and Harry long enough to do any schoolwork or attend to her prefect duties, much less escape to the solace of the library. After her four-day absence, this felt like a homecoming.  
  
As had recently become her habit, Hermione made her way through the stacks towards the rear of the long room. She'd brought work from several classes, but was nonetheless hoping to find Millicent present, as she'd spent most of the previous night preparing some notes for their project. Turning into the most secluded corner of the room, she was pleased to see her hope satisfied. However, as Millicent appeared to be entirely occupied at that precise moment, Hermione paused discreetly some distance from the scene before her.   
  
Standing straight with her thick arms folded firmly across her broad chest, Millicent was glaring at a couple of Slytherin boys from across a long table. As the tense silence stretched on, Millicent placed her palms on the table top, and leaned forward. The students looked terrified. When she gave her head a slight jerk, the young Slytherins cautiously stood up as one, gathered their belongings, and moved to another table a safe distance away. Her usual table free, Millicent sat down with a satisfied smirk and began to unload her bag.   
  
In spite of herself, Hermione grinned. Had the unfortunate students been from any other house, she would have been horrified to see such a petty misuse of seniority. But her prefect status was momentarily forgotten in the faint thrill of seeing Slytherins respond to authority, unfounded though it may have been.   
  
As Hermione took a seat across the table from Millicent, the Slytherin looked up with slight surprise. "Granger. Fancy seeing you here."   
  
"Hi." Hermione began sorting through her stack of books, then unloaded her own bag, withdrawing the two Muggle books Millicent had lent her and several rolls of parchment.   
  
"Feeling better?"  
  
"Yeah, lots. Thanks for asking." Holding out the books, Hermione smiled. "I wanted to thank you for these."   
  
Millicent shrugged. "Well, I didn't think you'd have much else to do. And I thought they were interesting…"  
  
Hermione spread the parchments flat and nodded. "They were, very." She gestured toward the parchments. "I took some notes on them as I read."   
  
Looking intrigued, Millicent leaned forward.   
  
"Most are just in response to your own observations, but they sort of gave me an idea of some more things we ought to address."  
  
Nodding, Millicent took the stack of parchment from Hermione and began to read. After a moment, she looked up, the barest hint of a smile curling her lips. "We could practically use this for an outline."  
  
"Well, not exactly. I mean, that's only from two books," Hermione answered sensibly, though she was flattered by the suggestion.  
  
"Yes, but still. A very thorough approach."  
  
Attempting a casual shrug, Hermione watched with pleasure as Millicent continued to flip through the parchments. Not many Gryffindors appreciated Hermione's thorough approach to her studies. Harry and Ron certainly didn't. Their own academics had been in steady decline since the beginning of the year, Quidditch having become their primary concern of late. Which reminded her…   
  
"Um…"   
  
"Hm?" Millicent didn't look up, but her curiosity taking control, Hermione continued.   
  
"I was just wondering how it is that you know Ellis."  
  
Absently, Millicent glanced up from the parchments. "Bliss? We met in Cambridge."   
  
"Oh?" Hermione supposed that Millicent's indifferent tone ruled out the possibility that Ellis had been bullied into the delivery of the Muggle books, which she had considered unlikely anyway. But it didn't explain what would make a Gryffindor go out of her way to do a favor for a student from her rival house. It was a rare Gryffindor who could manage civility of any sort toward a Slytherin, and the opposite was even truer. If Ellis hadn't been forced into the delivery, it almost fell to reason that she and Millicent were friends, or at the very least, friendly.   
  
Somehow, Millicent didn't seem the sort to make a habit of befriending Gryffindors.  
  
Carefully, Hermione considered how she might best press the issue without seeming to pry.  
  
Millicent certainly hadn't seemed perturbed by the question, but as she continued to read through the notes, her preoccupied expression gave way to one of unmistakable irritation. Whether or not that was Hermione's doing, the look hardly invited further inquiries. Perhaps it would be wise to drop the matter for now.  
  
Hermione inked a quill and opened a text-book, working quietly until Millicent put down the parchments. Hermione looked up to see Millicent's mouth now twisted in a frown as she sorted through her bag again, this time producing several more paperback texts. "You might find something of interest in these as well," she said.  
  
Nodding, Hermione began to reach for the books, but doubtfully Millicent pulled them back and sighed. "Look, Granger…"   
  
Feeling foolish, Hermione dropped her arm. "What's wrong?"  
  
Reluctantly, Millicent put down the books and pushed them across the table. "I don't think it's fair…" she trailed off thoughtfully. "Just… remember that this is supposed to be a joint effort."   
  
"I know that." Hermione was vaguely startled at the intensity of Millicent's expression. Whatever was troubling the girl, it was obviously more than just the notes.  
  
"It's not that I don't appreciate your… focus. But don't take on too much. We have the whole year, and I _am_ your partner in this."  
  
Curiously, Hermione opened one of the books, pleased to see that it was marked and scribbled upon much as the first two had been. She closed the book again, looking back to Millicent's critical gaze.  
  
"Really, I just had so much time to myself. And they were interesting. That's all." This was certainly true. And yet Hermione had been as pleased with the books as she'd been with any of her birthday gifts. The gesture had been unmistakably friendly. Maybe she had gone too far with the notes, but if that were true, it had only been to show her gratitude.  
  
"Yes, but all the same…" Again, Millicent sighed. "This isn't going to work if we're each just working at our own paces, passing notes. We're going to have to work _together_ eventually."  
  
Her unease escalating quickly, Hermione leaned back in her chair. "What do you mean? I thought we were."  
  
Millicent's expression shifted to one of doubt. "I just…look, if you think this is a bad idea, you should say so now. I get the impression that you're not really comfortable around me, and –" Shrugging, Millicent went on. "I would understand if you wanted out. I imagine this setup has been rather difficult for you so far. It's pointless if we can't work together without feeling…" Running her fingers through her hair, Millicent looked away. "I don't know."  
  
Hermione nodded carefully. Millicent was wrong in part. The Gryffindors had already pretty much dropped the matter. The barrage of questions that had arisen in the beginning had mostly been in regard to Hermione's safety and sanity, but her impatience - and eventually her anger - had effectively discouraged any further such questions, even from Ron and Harry. It was true that she'd felt a good deal of wariness toward her partner in the beginning, but that was lessening all the time.   
  
It was clear that Millicent was dealing with more.   
  
"Do you mean that you want out?" Hermione finally asked.  
  
Millicent looked a bit startled, then gave a dry smile and shook her head. "It doesn't matter to me."   
  
Hermione understood. It was too late. The damage was done. "Then I'd rather we kept going."  
  
"Yeah?" A look of surprised relief crossed Millicent's face.  
  
Hermione smiled a little, then returned her attention to her book. "Yeah."   
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Although there were no official Astronomy classes held on Friday evenings, several dozen students from various years and houses had already been scattered atop the Astronomy tower when Hermione and Ron had finally arrived. While many of these students had been, and still were, involved in activities that were definitely not scholastic, the majority of Hermione's schoolmates were seemingly there for the lunar eclipse, which was already an hour underway.   
  
Like Hermione, their rapt attention was focused on the moon, brilliant behind the shadow that slowly crossed it. With some degree of determination, Hermione was ignoring the equally rapt gaze of Ron, which was focused on her. One of his hands had been lightly grazing the small of Hermione's back for the past quarter hour, but at this moment it was sliding lower and he was pulling closer.  
  
"Ron…"  
  
Tangling one of Hermione's unruly curls around one long finger, Ron leaned forward, pushing his lips to Hermione's jaw. "Hmm?"  
  
Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, but catching herself on the verge of giving in to a sigh, she opened them again and pulled back slightly. "Are you listening?" Ron moved forward. No, obviously not.  
  
Hermione had invited Ron to accompany her to see the eclipse that night hoping that the presence of so many students might discourage his affection for at least a few hours, but now Hermione was wondering whether Ron had heard anything other than "you" "me" and "astronomy tower" in her invitation. Putting a protesting hand to Ron's chest, Hermione tried again. "Ron, I've been thinking."  
  
Ron pulled closer at this and slipped his arms around Hermione's waist, his mouth now inches from her ear. "'Bout what?"  
  
"About…" Hermione was finding the warmth of Ron's breath quite distracting. "About us."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Ron nuzzled his cheek softly against Hermione's neck. She could feel his mouth turn up in a smile against her skin.  
  
"Ron, don't."  
  
Ron pulled back at this, holding Hermione's shoulders at arms' length. That seemed to have gotten his attention, Hermione thought, seeing the sudden appearance of worry on Ron's gentle face. "What's wrong?" he asked.  
  
Hermione hesitated, then looked away.   
  
Hermione had had very few dealings with unwanted attention in the past. The closest thing to a real relationship she'd ever had had been with Viktor Krum, and she'd not had to break up with Viktor, as he'd saved her the trouble. Still, they had parted on good terms and still owled one another occasionally.   
  
After Viktor, early into her fifth year, a sixth-year Hufflepuff had asked her out. She'd declined because of her lasting hopes for Ron. Shortly after, she'd said no to Dean for the same reason. And that was it.  
  
Since her injury a week ago, Hermione's increasing discontent had convinced her that her relationship with Ron was going nowhere. Exactly what that meant, however, was hard to admit, especially when, as now, Ron was looking at her with such genuine concern.  
  
"I just… don't want to do that tonight…" Hermione trailed of lamely as the concern on Ron's face gave way to obvious hurt.   
  
Ron stood slowly, then reached out and placed his hand softly on Hermione's head. "I should get downstairs. Promised Seamus a chess match." Ron forced a weak smile before turning.   
  
"Ron, don't–" Hermione started to reach for his hand when a series of gasps stopped her. Glancing upwards, Hermione sucked in a breath.   
  
The shadow crawling across the moon had by this time changed to a stunning red. Spellbound, the students on the tower fell still and silent as the eclipse swallowed the last sliver of white. It was the kind of ethereal beauty that demanded pause.   
  
Seconds later, some awed conversation resumed. Remembering herself, Hermione looked back to where Ron had been standing a moment before.   
  
He was already gone.   
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Directly after the eclipse, most of the students who'd been atop the Astronomy Tower had returned to their dorms, their departing chatter sounding distinctly excited. Millicent, however, felt only unsettled. The eerie image of a moon the color of fresh blood had burned itself into her mind.   
  
Millicent had stayed a while, even after the eclipse had so reluctantly began to release the moon, thoughtfully considering Professor Trelawney's earlier lecture in Divination.   
  
Her firm pessimism, dramatic appearance, and tasteless costumes had earned Trelawney an unflattering reputation, but all theatrics aside, Trelawney was actually quite well-versed in Divination and magic in general. Millicent thought her a capable teacher, and had, for years, found her lectures quite interesting.   
  
That afternoon her class had largely pertained to the subject of the moon in divining. Briefly Trelawney had reviewed the more common meanings associated with the moon: a universal measure of time, a sign of eternity, of change, of death and rebirth, rise and decline. She'd gone on to discuss how the moon could be read at its different phases or in different weather in both ancient and modern times. The moon was seen as an integral part of early divining, as it was considered a gateway between the diviner and her visions. Some diviners still preferred to work at night, particularly under a full moon – this was certainly true for Millicent.   
  
Eventually Trelawney had gone into detail on the subject of eclipses. More superstition than fact, an eclipse was said to poison one's sanity, to be an omen of coming disaster, of the downfall of good.  
  
Millicent did not doubt that Trelawney had witnessed tonight's eclipse with wholehearted dread.   
  
As the tower emptied, Millicent shivered slightly. Finding herself alone with only the few especially amorous couples that remained, Millicent stood up to go as well. As she turned toward the stairs, however, she was surprised to see Hermione sitting alone at the other end of the tower, still watching the sky.   
  
Millicent stared contemplatively for a moment, vainly trying to identify the look on Hermione's face. It wasn't at all like the unease Millicent was feeling herself, but Hermione looked troubled all the same. Lonely, maybe.   
  
As if Millicent had called her name, Hermione instinctively turned her head from the sky and toward Millicent, then smiled a slow unsteady smile.   
  
Millicent nodded, pulled her bag over her shoulder and walked toward Hermione's bench. "Are you staying long?"  
  
"No, actually, not long at all."   
  
Millicent nodded. "I'll wait for you."  
  
"Thanks," Hermione said uncertainly before she shoved a book and a scroll into her bag. A couple of Gryffindor boys passed, casting twin distrustful gazes at Millicent. Millicent quirked an eyebrow, and they frowned and looked away, quickening their synchronized paces.  
  
Hermione, still bent over her things, didn't appear to have noticed. "Oh, I'd completely forgotten." Hermione said as she withdrew her hand from her bag and held it out to Millicent. Curious, Millicent extended her own hand, allowing Hermione to drop what looked like a Chocolate Frog card into her open palm.  
  
Drawing it closer, Millicent was a little surprised to see that it actually was a Chocolate Frog card. That is, until she saw the very familiar pair of cold blue eyes blinking up at her. Turning the card over, Millicent read the terse description of Carling's contribution to the wizarding world, then turned back to the side with the picture. "She would have hated this," Millicent acknowledged.   
  
"So you were related, then?"   
  
"She was my grandmother." Reluctantly, Millicent held out the card to Hermione again.   
  
"It's all right, I don't collect them."   
  
Nodding, Millicent tucked the card into the pocket of her robes. There were few pictures of Carling in existence, as she, like Millicent, had never held any illusions of being beautiful. Besides being fiercely protective of their privacy, most Bulstrodes were camera shy as well. Millicent had been unexpectedly moved to see that face again for the first time in three months.   
  
"Thanks." Millicent was annoyed at the unsteadiness in her voice, and she did not look up again until she'd regained her composure. First the eclipse, and now this had made her infuriatingly susceptible to her emotions.  
  
When she did look up, Hermione had politely averted her gaze to the sky. "You must have been very close."  
  
Millicent looked to the moon as well, again shining white against the profoundly blue sky. "She lived with my family from the time I was seven."  
  
"That must have been amazing for you. She did so much…"  
  
Millicent hmmed in agreement, unsurprised that Hermione was familiar with Carling's work.   
  
A calm silence fell between the girls for a few moments, but when Millicent looked back down at Hermione, the girl's mouth was twisted in thought. "I was wondering…" she began, looking up.   
  
Millicent nodded, and Hermione continued.   
  
"Well, you said you know Ellis from Cambridge. But I was thinking and... _How_ is it that you met?"  
  
Grateful for the change in subject, Millicent smiled a little. It was true that she and Ellis were certainly from different social circles. The Bulstrode wealth was firmly established - as old as the Malfoys'. The Radclyffe Hall Estate spanned dozens of acres outside of the city and was impressive to say the least. Bliss on the other hand had been raised by her struggling unmarried Muggle mother in a flat in one of the less prestigious areas of Cambridge. Doubtlessly, Hermione knew this. The Bulstrodes would have had little cause to have ever come into contact with Ellis or her mother.   
  
"Why didn't you ask her?"  
  
Hermione looked a little uncomfortable, but did not hesitate in answering. "I did, actually. She suggested that I ask you."  
  
"Really?" Absently, Millicent wondered how many Gryffindors would have done the same. For all their love of chivalry and decency, the Gryffindor moral code was somewhat lacking when it came to dealing with Slytherins. She had to admit that Bliss, however, was a comrade of sorts. "That was considerate of her."  
  
Hermione looked curious at this, but as Millicent offered no elaboration, she nodded before slipping her bag over her shoulder.  
  
"I'm sorry. It's none of my business."   
  
Thoughtfully, Millicent watched Hermione as she fastened the clasp on her bag, and moved to stand. For a girl so well known for her curiosity, she had certainly given up easily enough. Hermione couldn't quite conceal her disappointment, however. Slightly perplexed by her own intentions, Millicent moved forward.  
  
"No, it's fine." Millicent glanced at the bench. "Do you mind?"   
  
"No, no not at all." Hermione seemed glad to move aside, allowing Millicent a comfortable space beside her.   
  
Millicent had been considering whether or not she should out herself to Hermione for some time now. If she didn't, it was likely that someone else would – assuming they hadn't already. Still, Millicent didn't see the issue of her sexuality being of any real potential consequence to the Gryffindor, who was known for being quite progressive, and who, of course, already had reason enough to hate her, and yet amazingly enough, did not. But Millicent knew that hers wasn't the only reputation at stake; she was risking the assumption that Bliss had been prepared to be outed when she'd deflected the question to Millicent…  
  
Dismissing her reservations, Millicent screwed up her courage, took a deep breath, and began.   
  
"I first met Bliss in Cambridge, as I said. In a bookstore."  
  
"A bookstore? Like a wizard bookstore?"  
  
Cautiously, Millicent rolled her thoughts around in her mind. However she put this, there was no telling what Hermione's reaction might be. Still, beating around the bush, as it were, never served much purpose in situations like these. "No. More like a gay bookstore, really."  
  
Hermione's jaw dropped and she gasped audibly. "You mean…?"  
  
"Yes." Millicent was amused to see such serious shock sweep across Hermione's face. Millicent waited patiently for Hermione to compose herself.  
  
"Ellis too?" she finally managed.  
  
"Well, she, ah, definitely seemed it at the time." Millicent paused. "As did her girlfriend."  
  
Finally Hermione relaxed a little, though her face was still the very picture of astonishment. "I just… Never would have thought it. She just seems so..." Hermione trailed off thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes.  
  
"Normal?" Millicent ventured, a wry smile spreading across her face. Perhaps she'd misjudged Hermione. A few S.P.E.W. buttons apparently did not an open mind make.  
  
Jolted, Hermione looked back at Millicent, her eyes open wide with embarrassment. "That's not what I meant."  
  
Millicent shrugged and stood. "We should get going." By this time, they were the only two students remaining on the tower. Millicent could see no reason to let the Gryffindors worry, and already this conversation seemed to have taken an awkward turn.  
  
Hermione stood as well, still looking abashed and somewhat flustered. "It doesn't matter to me, really," she offered. "I mean, it doesn't make me uncomfortable or anything. I have a lesbian aunt."  
  
Millicent laughed. "Everyone has a lesbian aunt."  
  
Hermione smiled. "Do you?"  
  
"Well, no," Millicent answered, again laughing. Relaxing a little, Millicent turned to Hermione, offering what she hoped was a reassuring smile. She couldn't remember having ever given one before.  
  
She was relieved when Hermione smiled back. Side by side the girls began to descend the staircase. "I am sorry, really. Was just a bit shocked." Hermione laughed. "Well, I suppose that was obvious." She paused. "Oh… Harry will be so disappointed."   
  
Millicent grinned.  
  
"I just wonder…why didn't she ever tell anyone?" Hermione asked a moment later, seemingly more to herself than to Millicent.  
  
"I'm sure she has." Millicent answered. "She's not shy about it."  
  
Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "Are you?"   
  
"Not particularly." Millicent shrugged. "Though this is a bit out of the ordinary." And it was – many Slytherins knew Millicent for a lesbian, but either by rumor or assumption. Aside from Draco, no one had ever asked her directly.  
  
As they neared the bottom of the staircase, Hermione again broke the silence. "Can I ask you something?"  
  
There was no reason why not, at this point. Hermione already knew more than was probably safe. "Yes."  
  
"Are - Have you ever…er… that is to say. Do you have a g-"   
  
"No," Millicent finally interrupted, when Hermione had turned an amusing shade of pink.  
  
Hermione looked down, her cheeks still flushed. "Then how did you know?"  
  
Millicent hesitated a moment. "I'd imagine… the same way that you knew you weren't."  
  
This seemed a logical enough answer, for Hermione nodded, finally looking up.  
  
"It's just so odd." Millicent lifted an eyebrow. "I'd just never considered it," Hermione explained hastily. "Though, it's not really so uncommon. One in ten, or so I've read."  
  
"Mmm." Hermione was certainly well read, but again, Millicent was not surprised.  
  
"But then, that does give one reason to wonder. Ten percent… I suppose this should have occurred to me before. It's just, well, I can't think of anyone else at Hogwarts who could be, except of course for Malfoy."  
  
Millicent choked on her laughter. "How did you know that?"  
  
Hermione shrugged. "Is it supposed to be a secret?"  
  
Pushing her hair behind her ear, Millicent gave this some thought. "Something like that. You know it's as much of an issue in the wizarding world as it's ever been for Muggles," she said. "If not more."  
  
"I suppose so. But he's so obvious. He wears more eyeliner than Parvati."  
  
Millicent laughed again. "Yes, and Bliss gets her hair cut by the same barber as Madam Hooch. Selective observation, you have."  
  
"Madam Hooch, too?" Hermione rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, smiling. "Well, I don't guess that should surprise me. Who else? That's only four."   
  
Truthfully, Millicent answered, "I don't really know. And I probably oughtn't tell even if I did."  
  
Hermione looked a bit surprised at this. "But can't you sort of guess?"  
  
Millicent stopped as the girls reached the junction that would part them and shot Hermione a pointed look. Softening at the genuine interest in Hermione's gaze, she shrugged. "You mean 'gaydar'? It's not totally reliable."  
  
For a moment, the girls simply looked at one another, curious expressions on both their faces. Millicent felt like she'd made some amazing discovery.   
  
Without Draco, she'd been more alone the past few weeks than even she could really tolerate. It had been wonderful to be so open for even a few moments. She hadn't felt so completely untroubled in weeks. Judging by the smile on Hermione's face, the Gryffindor felt the same. "Well," Millicent said, feeling distinctly reluctant to return to the dorms.   
  
"Well…" Hermione answered.  
  
"Well. I should hope you have a reasonable explanation for being out of your dorms." Startled, both girls turned to see Professor Snape approaching, a particularly unpleasant sneer across his pallid face.  
  
He stopped a short distance from the girls and crossed his arms, apparently waiting for a response.   
  
"We were out for the eclipse," Hermione said, straightening her back and turning so that her Prefect's badge glinted slightly in the hall's torchlight. For such a small person, Millicent found it admirable that Hermione could muster such a commanding presence when the situation demanded.  
  
Snape narrowed his eyes. "That ended half an hour ago."  
  
"Yes." The girls waited expectantly. Snape merely scowled before stalking off.   
  
Impressed, Millicent smiled again. "I suppose we should get to our dorms then. Library tomorrow night?"   
  
Hermione nodded. "Of course." Tossing a wave and a smile over her shoulder, she turned away.   
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
"Very impressive, Longbottom." Millicent grinned as Professor Snape, with practiced ease, extinguished the small fire that had caught when a drop of Longbottom's failed weightlessness potion had been applied to his own desk. With another string of muttered charms, Snape banished the smoke from the air, making the Gryffindor boy visible through the hazy product of his ill-made potion. Slouching next to his nearly demolished desk, Neville looked half terrified and half furious.   
  
"I'm taking five points for your apparent illiteracy." Snape shook a small bottle of clearly marked, highly flammable Ashwinder Eggs in Neville's round face. Neville grimaced.  
  
"Don't forget damage of school property!" Pansy offered in a helpful tone. Snape shot the Slytherins a warning look before returning his murderous glare to the shaken Gryffindor. "Clean it up."   
  
Classes with the Gryffindors were generally more entertaining than solo Slytherin classes, Millicent thought, her grin widening. The snickers coming from the Slytherin side of the room seemed proof enough of her housemates' concurrence.   
  
"Three feet on the properties of Ashwinder Eggs by Wednesday, all of you."   
  
Of course, there were drawbacks… Millicent sighed.   
  
"Now get out. Except –" his voice broke loudly over the shuffle of the departing students. "for you, Miss Bulstrode. A word, if you please."  
  
  
  
**TBC**  
  
  
  
**Thank yous:**  
  
To my betas - the ever-dependable Lasair, who catches every single mistake - an altogether supernatural ability - and for the first time, Millefiori, who will inherit this story if I die in some freak accident before it's finished. (Quit hoping, you traitors.) Both are brilliant writers and a formidable editing team. They really really really saved this chapter. I cannot even begin to give them the credit they deserve.   
  
To Anna Maria, for including HoH on Madam Hooch's Broom Closet- what an honor!   
  
And to everyone who's reviewed – your feedback means so much – and to everyone who's still reading. Such patience!  
  
If you want to see pictures of the eclipse that actually took place Sept 26/27 1996, you have to promise to pretend not to notice how badly I screwed up the times. And date. Just look at the pretties, okay?  
  
  
  
Next chapter: Halloween! And stuff.   
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Mystery and Misery

**Summary:** A character-driven femmeslash romance, revolving around an uncommon pairing. Millicent Bulstrode and Hermione Granger star. This chapter: bad tea, a walk on a rainy day, pretty Gryffindors touching, something you've been expecting all along, and a most uncomfortable Halloween.  
  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
  
**Author notes:** Infinite thanks to Lasair and Millefiori for another awesome beating. Betaing, I meant betaing. You ladies save me from myself like no one else can. I couldn't possibly ask for more. So much love!   
  
Please keep in mind that this is a pre-OotP fic, and as such, a bajillion things in my little AU don't line up with canon. For instance, Millicent never pinned Hermione to a wall. Sad but true.   
  
And of course, I'm still having my wicked way with characterization. Brace yourselves.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
**Chapter 5: Mystery and Misery**   
  
*  
  
"I wish you'd mentioned this earlier, Millicent." Alden Bulstrode pushed thoughtfully at what remained of his lunch, then set aside his fork and frowned. "I don't like it. Not at all."   
  
Millicent shrugged, but made no other response; none was expected. Instead, she added a generous spoonful of sugar to her tea and began to work through the complicated stirring pattern used in the preparation of Wolfsbane potion. This she had picked up from the Grimoire only the evening before, but already she could complete the passage in its entirety with a precision that would have pleased even Professor Snape. Or would have a month ago, anyway.   
  
Now it was doubtful that a successful preparation of the potion itself would be sufficient to move Snape, who, in fact, was the dominant topic of the day's conversation. Though now that Millicent thought about it, it wasn't technically a conversation if only one person was involved.   
  
"Not at all," Alden repeated. Millicent sighed.   
  
For the past hour, her father had been carrying on so, expressing disdain and concern and the occasional reprimand between bites of his lunch. Silently, Millicent had finished her own meal halfway through his intermittent discourse, and had passed the rest of it sulking over her tea. It was rare enough that she saw her father, and to have this visit spoiled by Snape, of all people, made her regret his mention at all, never mind too late.   
  
Still frowning, Alden picked up his fork again and held it over his plate between ink-stained fingers, poised as though it were a quill, and the plate before him a parchment bearing some difficult equation.   
  
"I can't imagine what he might be thinking…" Alden trailed off as an attractive young witch in deep violet robes appeared at his left and replaced his empty glass with another, full to the brim, as the last three had been, with a rich wine smelling of spices. "Thank you, my dear." Alden smiled at the witch, revealing a row of even white teeth. Always effective, Millicent thought dryly; the witch flushed prettily and batted her eyelashes.   
  
"My pleasure." She answered as though she meant it. This wasn't unusual. When she was young, Millicent had supposed that Alden's charm was inherited from his father - it certainly hadn't come from Carling, who had been pleasant enough in her own way, but markedly reserved in contrast to her charismatic son. A few summers ago, however, Carling had finally set her straight, saying in a tone that had invited no further inquiry that "that man" had been able to rely enough on his good looks that his personality had been left to rot. Since then, Millicent had secretly suspected that "that man" was a Malfoy – likely enough among the Wizarding upper class - but Carling never had said, and Alden had never seemed very interested in the matter.   
  
Her eyes still on Alden, the witch made as though to take Millicent's tea. Millicent covered the cup with her hand. "I'm fine." The witch nodded, but barely glanced at her before returning her smile to Alden, then making her way back to the bar. Her hips rolled pleasantly as she went, and for one spell-bound moment, both father and daughter watched her go.   
  
"What he might be thinking…" Alden said again a moment later, the distraction already forgotten.   
  
But the violet-clad witch was still eyeing Alden hopefully from behind the bar as she dried a glass with a cloth bearing The Three Broomsticks's unimaginative logo. The motion was more than a little provocative. Millicent smiled in spite of herself.   
  
Alden frowned. "It's no laughing matter, Millicent."   
  
Reluctantly returning her attention to the conversation, Millicent nodded. "No, of course not. But," Millicent added, her hand drifting again toward the sugar. "I still think you're over-reacting."   
  
"And I think you're under-reacting, Millicent." Alden returned, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Which is rather unusual."   
  
Millicent attempted an innocent shrug. "He's never liked me, Alden."   
  
"But he's never singled you out like this before." Alden paused pointedly. "Has he?"   
  
Millicent hmmed in assent. "No, he hasn't." And he hadn't. Professor Snape was renowned and reviled for favoring the students within Slytherin house, and until now, had never given Millicent a detention she didn't completely deserve. "But I've never provided him a reason to before." And this was true, too. Millicent had received detention in nearly every Potions class since the night of the eclipse. There was little room for doubt of Snape's motive.   
  
"Don't be ridiculous. I'd hardly call a promising working relationship a 'reason'. To be treated so by your whole house – even your house head – it's appalling. House loyalty shouldn't interfere with your schoolwork," Alden said for what must have been the fifth time.   
  
"But there's more to it than that." Millicent took a moody sip of her tea, grimaced, and reached for the milk.   
  
"Yes. Yes, I know, of course there is. But nothing that excuses this."   
  
Alden looked thoughtful for a moment, dabbing at his mouth with a carefully folded napkin. "You've always been able to look after yourself, Millicent. But you're right. More than house rivalry is at stake here. You ought to consider speaking to Dumbledore."   
  
Millicent looked up, surprised. "If I thought it might be worth my while, I would."   
  
"Surely he deserves more credit than that."   
  
Millicent snorted. "Even with Professor Snape in his employ?"   
  
"Well, I don't think Snape would ever harm you directly."   
  
"Obviously you've never tasted his tea," Millicent grumbled under her breath.   
  
"What's that? You've taken food from a Death Eater?"   
  
"_Dad_, people will hear you."   
  
"Well?"   
  
"Not much of." The truth was, potions master or no, Severus Snape's tea tasted somewhat like heated dishwater. "It was just that first day, when he called me into his office."   
  
"Millicent, you must use some caution!" Alden chided, his voice rising again.   
  
"But you just said-"   
  
"Yes, yes, but there's no reason to tempt fate. What if he'd put Veritaserum in your tea? What if he'd- "   
  
"I'm only sixteen. What could I have to confess?"   
  
"Don't be so naïve, Millicent. He was sixteen once, and no doubt he already had plenty of secrets at that age. Why should Severus Snape -" People really were staring now.   
  
"_Alden_. I think you've had too much to drink," Millicent snapped, and maybe she was right; her father wasn't the sort to usually tolerate such blatant insolence. But Alden lowered his voice and gave Millicent's hand a reassuring pat.   
  
"I'm sorry," he said, softly now. "But I don't trust him, Millicent, and you shouldn't either. The details of his clearing with the Ministry were hushed up so entirely… It never did make sense to me. Dumbledore surely had his reasons - he always does. But it's been almost twenty years. People change. This fair-weather loyalty is not loyalty at all."   
  
*   
  
Hermione maneuvered herself through the door of the newly built (but strangely weathered-looking) Hogsmeade Book Shop with a measure of success that surprised even her. The books she'd purchased were neither so very large, nor particularly heavy, but there were quite a lot of them. As she'd not thought to shrink or levitate them while she'd still had easy access to her wand, getting back to the school, she was belatedly realizing, would be no small trick. But tackling the door had been a start. Her chin pressed firmly to the book on top, Hermione pressed past a group of witches and wizards crowded below the shop's awning and out onto the cobbled road and into the rain.   
  
Rain, she hadn't noticed the rain. Clumsily, Hermione spun back around and made to step again onto the curb, but in the turn, lost her footing and stumbled. The books flew forward in an impressive arc, and she, with far less grace, followed. To Hermione's great surprise, both she and the books were caught in mid-air, the books by a well-aimed hovering charm, and she by a too-firm grip on her upper arm.   
  
"Watch your step, Granger," a familiar voice said as Hermione was pulled out of the rain and back under the awning.   
  
Millicent, an amused smile pulling her lips wide, let go of Hermione's arm as quickly as she'd taken it. Hermione gave a weak smile in return, then turned her attention to the arm in question, now stinging furiously beneath her school robes. She wondered vaguely if the prevented fall might not have been less painful than Millicent's grip. "Thanks," she said anyway.   
  
Millicent shrugged, unconcerned or unaware of Hermione's pain. Her attention was now focused on the well-dressed gray-haired wizard who stood at her side. Waving his wand smoothly, he collected and stacked the books that his charm, Hermione surmised, had left hovering haphazardly among the throng of witches and wizards seeking refuge from the pouring rain. The books tidily stacked, the wizard summoned them forward and smiled. "So, this is Hermione Granger."   
  
Hermione stole a curious glance at Millicent, her arm quite forgotten.   
  
Millicent nodded. "Granger, this is my father, Alden Bulstrode."   
  
Hermione could now see that the two shared a remarkable likeness - but at the same time, none at all. Mr. Bulstrode was large in frame, like Millicent, but lacked Millicent's impressive height. His skin and hair were pale and unremarkable compared to Millicent's dramatic coloring, but the broad, long features of his angular face were very like his daughter's, though they suited him just as well as they didn't Millicent. He was, Hermione thought, quite good-looking. At least considering his age.   
  
"It's a pleasure." Mr. Bulstrode stepped forward, produced a charming smile, and took Hermione's right hand between both of his, giving it a firm shake. "I've heard so much about you." Hermione looked at Millicent again, her interest piqued. Millicent's eyes were wide, her smile quite gone. "All of it good, of course," he added, though whether to reassure her or Millicent, Hermione could not tell. If it had been the latter, he'd failed; Millicent looked mortified.   
  
"Thank you," Hermione said, grinning. "I'm familiar with your work. It's a privilege."   
  
"Ah, and I yours. Your editorial in _The Prophet_ last spring… what was it?" Alden frowned and looked at Millicent, who was now looking more blank than vexed. She shook her head at her father as he turned back to face Hermione. "Elvish Welfare, wasn't it? An excellent essay."   
  
Hermione gaped. "You read that?" Crammed, as it had been, between the obituaries and a mail-order advertisement for Haldengarth's Hair Re-growth Potion, Hermione was certain that few had even noticed the severely edited article. But flattery won out over her disbelief, and Hermione was suddenly very certain she liked this man.   
  
"Indeed, yes. It kept popping up, shall we say, around my study. You have some fans among my staff." Hermione's face fell. "And how is your project coming along?" Mr. Bulstrode asked, oblivious, as he nudged the stack of books toward her with a casual flick of his wand.   
  
"Um, very well, actually." Hermione eased the books from the air back into her arms and replaced her chin on the top of the stack. "We're working through the first draft already."   
  
"Excellent, excellent. I must tell you, Miss Granger, how pleased I am that Millicent's finally made a friend who can match her for intelligence." He winked at Millicent, who was now looking murderous. Hermione couldn't quite suppress a grin.   
  
"Well, ladies, the rain seems to be letting up," Mr. Bulstrode said. Indeed, the gathering of witches and wizards who'd been crowded under the awning were drifting out into the now gently falling rain. "I should be off." He placed a hand on Millicent's shoulder, gave it a few pats, and smiled. Millicent's returning smile was a bit hard, Hermione thought. She could practically feel the embarrassment burning the girl's face an unnatural pink. "I'll send your mother your regards."   
  
Millicent's smile tightened at this, then softened a little as she let herself be pulled into a half-embrace. "Thanks for lunch."   
  
"Was my pleasure. Keep in touch, dear, especially about Snape. Miss Granger." Mr. Bulstrode nodded, then stepped into the street, and with a loud pop, Disapparated.   
  
*   
  
"I'm. Well. Sorry about that," Millicent said finally, staring vaguely at the spot where her father had stood a moment before. _Definitely too much to drink_, she thought.   
  
Eventually, Hermione's silence forced her to look up. The Gryffindor was grinning crookedly, eyebrows lifted, her head cocked in mock curiosity. "About what?"   
  
This Millicent decided to ignore. "So, are you here alone?" she asked quickly, looking past Hermione, half-expecting the belated appearance of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Heading back?"   
  
"I am."   
  
"Want a hand with those?" Hermione looked puzzled for a moment, then a simpler smile appeared on her face and she shifted her hold on the books so that Millicent could take half the stack into her own.   
  
The rain had let up fully by now, but the sky was still a threatening grey, darkening swiftly around a setting sun they could not see. For several minutes the girls walked in silence, Millicent pacing herself to accommodate Hermione's shorter stride. Despite her father's lectures and loose tongue, the day had been pleasant, and this companionable silence was pleasant, too.   
  
"Your dad seems like a very nice man," Hermione said at length.   
  
Millicent winced. "He means well."   
  
When Hermione shot her a sideways smile, Millicent was surprised to find she could return it easily enough.   
  
"I mean it, you know. I'm a bit jealous. My parents have never visited me during the school year." Millicent wanted to protest that her _parents_ never visited either, but it seemed unfair to complain about her mother's pointed absence from her father's occasional visits. And she definitely had no desire to explain that, not to Hermione or anyone.   
  
"You can hardly blame them. Muggle transportation is so inconvenient," Millicent answered finally, but noting Hermione's sudden frown added, "I didn't mean..."   
  
"I suppose so." Hermione sounded more wistful than offended, and Millicent started to ask why, but thinking of her own reluctance to talk about her mother, decided against it.   
  
"I'm sure they would if they could," she offered, but Hermione merely nodded distractedly. A few moments of silence followed, and Millicent felt vaguely helpless when she glanced at the small girl, hunching sadly against the stack of books in her arms.   
  
But at length, Hermione seemed to recover herself. "I don't mean to pry, but what did your father mean when he said 'keep in touch about Snape'? He's not making you do anything weird at your detentions, is he?"   
  
"Weird?" Millicent wondered for a moment what Hermione meant, then decided she'd rather not know. "Just the usual. Crushing billywig wings, cleaning cauldrons, you know," Millicent said, wondering if Hermione did know; it was hard to imagine Hermione in detention.   
  
"It's still awful."   
  
"Could be worse." Millicent didn't really mind the work as long as it didn't interfere with her studies. And these days, any excuse to get away from her housemates suited her just fine.   
  
"I guess so. But it shouldn't be happening at all."   
  
Millicent smiled, faintly touched by the conviction in Hermione's voice, but discomfited by it, too. "So," she said, eager to change the subject. "You write for _The Prophet_?"   
  
Hermione grinned suddenly. "That's a funny story…"   
  
*   
  
Hermione made a few desperate swipes at her hair with a comb missing half its teeth before giving up and crossing the room. Parvati looked up from the Divinations text in her lap at her approach and smiled curiously. "Something wrong?"   
  
"No, but if you have a minute…" Hermione gestured hopelessly at her hair, tangled well beyond her powers to control. Parvati grinned. Both she and Lavender offered their services on a regular basis, but it was rare indeed than Hermione came to them for help. She felt a pronounced sense of defeat at Parvati's contemplative smile. However, after mistakenly falling asleep in greenhouse three - which, it turned out, was the current home of a rather vindictive pixie - that afternoon after helping some third-years with a complicated Herbology assignment, there seemed to be no other alternative.   
  
Parvati ushered Hermione to an ornate stool set before the broad mirror on the west wall and tapped her wand against her palm thoughtfully. She knew more beautification charms than Hermione thought entirely proper, considering Parvati's low marks in Charms, but Hermione sighed appreciatively as Parvati set to work on the mass of tangles.   
  
As if on cue, Lavender pushed open the door. "Makeover?" she squealed, practically skipping across the room.   
  
"No, not a makeover! I just needed a little…" Hermione trailed off awkwardly. "Help."   
  
Lavender produced her own wand, took a long look at Hermione's hair, and exchanged a conspiratorial look with Parvati. "Is this Ron's doing?" she asked, grinning.   
  
Hermione sighed. "Hardly." Truth was, she'd been putting as much distance between herself and Ron over the past few weeks as she could manage. It was tiring, really, avoiding him so actively.   
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Parvati sounded hopeful, but Hermione merely shrugged.   
  
"I've been busy."   
  
"I'd heard that, actually," Lavender chimed in. "Ron was looking for you earlier, said something about -" Hermione met Lavender's knowing gaze in the mirror, squirming. Lavender frowned. "Are you all right?"   
  
"Can't we talk about something else?"   
  
The girls sighed in disappointment, but turned their focus back to their work and the day's gossip, which Hermione tuned out with the ease of five years of practice. Within minutes Hermione's hair fell in glossy ringlets down her back. Impressed, she moved to stand, but a hand on each shoulder pushed her back onto the stool. "Ah ah ah. Not yet." With wary obedience, Hermione settled back onto her seat. She closed her eyes, for a moment giving into the feel of gentle fingers against her scalp. Maybe she should submit to their ministrations more often, she thought drowsily.   
  
When the gossip ran dry, Lavender changed the subject. "And how are things going with Bulstrode?" she asked.   
  
Hermione brightened a bit at this. "Very well, actually." When she and Millicent had presented their work to the Muggle Studies class in mid-October, Keeping had been pleased. So had Hermione. But while Hermione responded to praise like a flower to light, Millicent, she had noted, had looked somewhat pained by the attention. Still, their work was progressing well, and Millicent had admitted as much, later, in private.   
  
"Well, that's to be expected. You're a good match."   
  
Hermione jerked her head up suddenly. "What?"   
  
"Virgo and Capricorn. Both Earth signs. Good working match," Parvati concurred.   
  
Hermione scoffed a bit, then thought about this and looked up again. "How do you know she's a Capricorn?"   
  
"We-ell," Lavender said guiltily, "We took a peek at her star chart in Divinations."   
  
Hermione laughed a little, then closed her eyes again as Lavender came around to stand in front of her. "You could have asked her."   
  
Parvati giggled. "We weren't quite that curious. There now." Hermione looked up at her reflection and smiled. Two simple clips held her hair away from her face. The circles under her eyes had disappeared, and the slightest touch of color across her eyelids and lips completed the effect. Lavender and Parvati leaned in on either side of her, beaming with satisfaction. "The prettiest girls in Gryffindor, aren't we?" Parvati asked. Hermione had to agree.   
  
*   
  
The flickering torches lining the narrow hallway gave off only a dim, patchy glow, but Millicent recognized her surroundings at once. A high vaulted ceiling was overhead, even polished stone underfoot, and at the end of the hall, one large ebony door was thrown wide, spilling a warm golden light across the floor like an invitation.   
  
Millicent had not been to Carling's North Scotland castle since the summer. Then, there had been no light in the hall at all, and the door at its end had been firmly shut and spell-locked. Curious, confused, Millicent walked toward the door, her steps echoing heavily around her.   
  
The chamber at the hall's end was not as she'd last seen it. Carling had been a busy witch, and her workroom had always been cluttered and unkempt. Now the shelves lining the walls were tidy, filled with clearly-labeled glass vials on one side and massive books carefully arranged on the other. Two well-polished worktables shone brightly in the room's center, reflecting the fire under the simmering cauldrons set nearby. A neat pile of scrolls lay on one, a smooth obsidian sphere the size of her fist on the other, and a few feet left of it hung an unfamiliar caged owl. At her entrance, the owl gave a piercing cry, pushed open the cage door, and flew to the opposite end of the room, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. The chairs set before the fire were not the worn grayish armchairs Millicent remembered from her youth, but high-backed, sturdy, and deep green. As the owl alighted on the back of one, a figure rose from it and stepped forward.   
  
For a moment, the surprise was so great that Millicent could not move. Instead she gaped stupidly. She was looking at herself, an older version of herself, taller and broader and sharper. Millicent took a step back, but her other self beckoned her closer. As though against her will, Millicent took a step, then another, until she was face to face with her own critical eyes, her own wolfish smile. Millicent flinched when her other self placed both her hands on her shoulders and nodded.   
  
"Took you long enough." She said, and she pushed.   
  
And then Millicent fell, through the stone floor into an endless velvety black, too startled to cry out, but flailing madly, her fingers clutching hopelessly at open air.   
  
*   
  
When Millicent woke up, she thought she was still dreaming. Blaise, wearing something black and clingy, was leaning over her between the bed's hangings, her black hair curtained around her and casting shadows across the planes of her face, an inquisitive smile curling her dark mouth. _Lovely_. Millicent closed her eyes and passed her tongue over her lips. She'd had this dream before.   
  
Blaise laughed at this, and at once Millicent opened her eyes again, then bolted upright. Blaise was standing straight now, and Millicent saw that Pansy was there too, holding the curtain aside and peering over Blaise's shoulder at Millicent with disdainful curiosity on her pale, pinched face. "What are you doing?" Millicent snapped. Now completely awake she grasped pointlessly at the bedclothes.   
  
Pansy sneered. "_We're_ getting ready for class. You've been making noise." Dropping the curtain, she walked away.   
  
"Bad dreams?" Blaise asked with a grin before following suit.   
  
Millicent's bed hangings fell around her again, one slim line of torchlight slicing through the darkness. "Don't remember." Millicent muttered, the raw scratch of her voice muffled within the shelter of the heavy hangings. But she did remember, she remembered it perfectly. The dream had been strange to her, not least because Millicent so rarely dreamed with such lucidity. At length, Millicent peeled back the bedclothes, twisted and tangled as though she really had been flailing, which she supposed wasn't all too unlikely, then pushed her hands against her eyes and frowned. Her head ached. Carefully, Millicent slid out of bed and stood. Her whole body ached. Millicent wondered if she had time for a trip to the infirmary before breakfast; the thought of a Pepperup Potion suddenly seemed very appealing.   
  
"What time is it?" Millicent asked, her voice still thick with restless sleep.   
  
"Ten past eight," the clock on her bedside table answered automatically. As if on cue, Blaise and Pansy left for breakfast, Blaise throwing Millicent one last grin before she disappeared through the open door.   
  
"Shit." Millicent reached for the glass beside the clock, and in the process knocked over the pitcher of water set next to it. It thudded against the carpet and rolled under her bed, trailing a line of water in its wake. Millicent drank what was left in the glass, then carefully stepped over the puddle, her thoughts flitting briefly to Hermione's concern for the house-elves that would be left to tend to it. She dressed in a rush, only briefly stopping at the mirror next to the door.   
  
"You look awful," the mirror said, tutting.   
  
"You always say that," Millicent answered, passing her wand hurriedly over her hair and smoothing her robes before swinging open the dormitory door.   
  
"It's always true," The mirror called after her, its voice ringing merrily down the stairs.   
  
By that time, it was late enough that Millicent expected to find the common room empty. It wasn't. Crabbe and Goyle were leaning against the wall by the door, massive arms crossed over massive chests in a crude imitation of ennui. It was a pose that looked, Millicent thought, altogether much better on Draco.   
  
"Morning, Crabbe, Goyle," Millicent said. Goyle grunted and looked past her, another trick of Draco's, but Crabbe gave an uncomfortable half-smile.   
  
"Happy Halloween, Bulstrode," he said. Goyle thwacked Crabbe hard across the chest, then worked his arms back together and glared at Millicent. Crabbe looked down, suddenly seeming very interested in his shoes.   
  
Millicent shook her head and reached for the door handle, but the door swung open before she quite got to it, and there stood Draco himself, an expression of extreme irritation twisting his delicate features. He was looking, she noted, completely past her.   
  
"I told you to wait for me by the door," he snapped, eyes flashing between his cohorts swiftly.   
  
"We are waiting by the door," Goyle answered.   
  
"_Outside_."   
  
As the two shimmied forward, Draco glanced at Millicent, his usual sneer firmly in place. "Out of detention for a change?" Draco asked.   
  
Millicent rolled her eyes and stepped toward the open door.   
  
"Ah well, it's early yet." Grinning, Draco turned round and began to walk away, but before she quite realized what she was doing, Millicent grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt and slammed him roughly into the door. Draco's mouth opened in surprise, then closed in a smug smile as Crabbe and Goyle moved forward. Millicent shoved Draco back again, his head sounding a dull thud against the wood, then dropped her hand and pushed past them.   
  
*   
  
"Are you sure you're all right?"   
  
Millicent looked up and forced a smile. "I'm fine." Hermione cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Really."   
  
"You haven't written anything for fifteen minutes."   
  
"Neither have you," Millicent pointed out. Hermione had been watching her in evident concern through almost the entire Muggle Studies period, but at this she flushed slightly and turned her attention to the parchment before her. Millicent smiled a little and began flipping through one of the books on her table with a shaking hand, quite unable to focus on its contents. Hermione was right to wonder – Millicent had felt distracted and out of sorts since waking up that morning, the memory of her dream the only clear thought she'd had all day. Her trip to the clinic had done nothing to settle her mind or the ache behind her eyes.   
  
Millicent inked her quill and drew a series of wobbly spirals in the margin of the book before feeling Hermione's gaze on her again.   
  
"I'm fine," she said without looking up. Hermione sighed.   
  
*   
  
It was normal, Hermione knew, for adolescents to sometimes feel like they were performing their lives more than living them – normal for them to imagine the people around them an audience, following their every move, forming swift opinions around hastily constructed scripts.   
  
Vainly, Hermione was trying to convince herself that such was the present case. But when Ginny had entered the Great Hall some five minutes ago, she'd shot Hermione a furious scowl before retreating to the far-most end of the table, from which she and the group of fifth-years huddled around her were now staring pointedly. Slowly, end to end, it seemed the rest of the Gryffindors at the table were being pulled into the tension that lay heavily between the two girls. Parvati and Lavender looked thrilled, Neville quite confused, and many more just uncomfortable.   
  
For the third time in as many minutes, in a hissing stage whisper, Ginny began to recount the events of the afternoon: how after their final class of the day, Hermione had pulled an extremely eager Ron into an empty classroom, not for the expected reason, but to break his loyal heart.   
  
Ginny might as well have been pointing for the way her classmates were staring now.   
  
_So much for making a subtle entrance_. Hermione felt herself bending under the weight of her Housemates' stares, glares, and sympathetic smiles, and for a moment she considered making an escape. But no, Ron had been conspicuously absent ever since she'd left him alone in that dark classroom, and Harry had too. Hermione was still clinging to what had earlier been certainty that Ron would make an appearance at the Halloween Feast, but even as the food began to appear before her eyes, he didn't come. Neither did Harry.   
  
Hermione risked another glance up the table. Ginny's gaze was still fixed in her direction, though everyone else seemed momentarily distracted by their filling plates. A hand on her shoulder made Hermione flinch, and when she looked up with more dread than hope, it was to meet a pair of sober green eyes. Hermione let go a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.   
  
"Harry." Anxiously, she scanned his face for reassurance. "Is Ron… is he okay?"   
  
Harry sat down and sighed, raking his fingers through his already untidy hair. "I don't know. I think he'll be down in a bit." He sounded uncertain. "You should, I mean, I wish you would talk to him, Hermione. I don't think you, er, he doesn't really know what to think." Harry frowned and reached for a nearby glass of pumpkin juice. "I have to admit, I don't really know what to think myself." Hermione sighed. It had all seemed so obvious to her.   
  
Harry took a long pull of his drink before turning to face her again. "Are you okay?" he asked.   
  
"I think so," she said finally. Harry nodded. "I will be," she added.   
  
Harry patted her shoulder awkwardly, then looked up, suddenly aware of the number of Gryffindors staring their way. When he scowled at them, most looked away. Ginny scowled back. _Like mother, like daughter_, Hermione thought.   
  
Hermione pushed her face into her hands, wishing she could keep it there until Ron arrived. She felt wretched. As wretched as Ron had looked that afternoon, she thought guiltily.   
  
In the dim light of the disused classroom, Hermione had said all the impersonal things she knew not to say. _It's not you, it's me, but can't we still be friends?_ Or something like that, like a bad television program, like a Hollywood movie. He had looked at her blankly, a still hopeful smile pulling at his mouth. Then, in one awful moment, he had understood. And that's when Hermione had left the room. She couldn't bear to see that look on his face, couldn't bear knowing that she'd put it there, and months of unhappiness suddenly seemed so trivial that she'd wanted to curl herself around him and beg forgiveness. But she couldn't. And so, she'd left him, and she'd known – she knew - she was right. This was right.   
  
So why did she feel so miserable?   
  
Suddenly Hermione was glad Ron hadn't shown up. She stood, knocking over Harry's pumpkin juice in the sudden movement.   
"Hermione!" Harry jumped back ineffectively as the juice splashed down his shirt, then grasped at her arm. She pulled it away.   
  
"I have to get out of here." She could feel the stares again, but this time she didn't care. Her pace quickened as she drew nearer the door, and by the time she was through it, she was nearly running.   
  
Hermione slowed down as she rounded the corner to the entrance hall and stopped dead when she saw Ron standing halfway up the staircase and looking right at her. Ron blanched as she took an unconscious step back. "Ron…"   
  
Ron managed to produce a weak smile as he took the last of the steps. "Hey, Hermione," he said. And he walked past her.   
  
Hermione spun around and opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. She sagged against the wall for a moment after Ron had gone and groaned. She was going to have to get used to this. She couldn't run away forever.   
  
_But maybe just for now_. Hermione straightened, took a quick glance back toward the Great Hall, then stepped purposefully toward the front door. A walk would do her some good.   
  
*   
  
Hermione allowed herself a small smile as she made her way across the lawn toward the lake. A bitter wind pulled at her hair and robes as she walked, but the chill was welcome after the oppressive atmosphere of the Hall. The waning moon overhead provided a mild glow to light her path, and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot was comforting in its immediacy. Determined to think of anything but the day's events, Hermione hummed tunelessly to herself and tried to pick out constellations.   
  
As she drew near the lake, Hermione veered off toward a cluster of trees where she sometimes went to study when the weather was fair. She had no intention of studying just now, of course, but – Hermione stopped short. Someone was crouching perfectly still at the edge of the lake, no more than twenty feet away. As she drew closer, Hermione realized with slight surprise that that someone was Millicent. She had seemed unwell in Muggle Studies that afternoon, but if she was ill, Hermione couldn't imagine why the girl would be outside, un-cloaked, on such a cold night. Hermione stopped several feet from the crouching Slytherin and when Millicent didn't look up, she coughed. "Do you mind if I j-" Millicent didn't move.   
  
Suddenly uneasy, Hermione broke off and stepped closer, then carefully knelt a couple of feet to Millicent's right. "Mi- Bulstrode. Are you all right?" By the soft moonlight Millicent looked very pale. Her head was tilted downward, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the water, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips moving soundlessly. The tension of her shoulders, of her arms braced on her knees seemed to suggest that something held her in place, and had been for some time. "What-" Bewildered, Hermione reached out a hand and waved it before Millicent's face, retracting it when there was no response.   
  
A hundred disjointed thoughts scurried unbidden through Hermione's mind. _Dark magic, fever, seizure, drugs..._ Confused and concerned, Hermione fought her initial instinct to go for help. Something was obviously wrong, but Hermione had no idea what, and she didn't want to leave the Slytherin alone in this state. Anxiously, she settled back on her heels, weighing her options and watching for some sign of change.   
  
She didn't have to wait long; after only a few tense seconds had passed, Millicent suddenly jerked her head up, and almost in the same movement, pulled herself to her feet. Clearly shaken, Millicent took an unsteady step toward a nearby tree, letting it support her weight with outstretched arms. Horrified, Hermione jumped up and watched as Millicent coughed and spat, then pulled both arms around the tree, leaned in, and moaned. Before she could even think about what she was doing, Hermione was at her side.   
  
*  


  


**Author notes:** Where to begin...  
  
It's been a while, hasn't it? I am so sorry. It really shouldn't happen again. Which is not to say it won't. But fingers crossed. I want to be a good girl, I do.   
  
I've gotten so many intelligently-written, sweet, and just generally supportive e-mails and reviews over the last nine months. It floors me that people have stuck around waiting for this chapter, and (most of you :P) so patiently, too! My gratitude to those of you who came back for another round just cannot be expressed. I've tried to thank everyone who reviewed individually, but if I somehow missed you, which is utterly inexcusable, I'm thanking you now. Your feedback and continued interest has meant the world to me.   
  
As usual, this chapter would be a complete mess without the life-saving assistance of Lasair and Millefiori, my betaing dreamteam. Thanks, ladies. If I were the breeding type, I'd name my first-born in your honor. Or should that be "honors"? Eep. I am nothing without you.   
  
As always, the best way to keep up with my progress is by checking my livejournal. (). If you asked to be put on my update list and weren't (bad me!) give me a little swat and a reminder. If you want an e-mail notification of chapter updates, be sure to put your e-mail address in your review or e-mail me.   
  
Next chapter: Something's up with Millicent, Hermione's pretty down, Draco is a prat, Ron is heart-broken, and tension is building, in a roundabout, rambling, distracted sort of way.


End file.
